


Starfall Prince

by ivegoneslightlymad



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Fantasy, Gay, M/M, Maesters, Plot, Politics, Romance, Slash, Starfall, War, m/m - Freeform, oldtown
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2020-12-20 22:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21064451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivegoneslightlymad/pseuds/ivegoneslightlymad
Summary: Reborn as the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Ashara Dayne, Harry Potter arrives in Westeros. An ancient tale promised a magical prince to stand against the darkness. Born to the blood of the dragon, amidst salt and smoke and beneath a bleeding star, the World of Ice and Fire welcomes a saviour who knows a bit about prophecies.Written partly to address the massive lack of Game of Thrones/Song of Ice and Fire Slash fiction.Harry Potter/Song of Ice and Fire xover.





	1. Chapter 1

-Prologue-

The Fall of the Long Night

The sun had dropped off the edge of the world and failed to return.

And now the sky was falling.

Its weight seemed to press into every corner of the vast city, whose only response was to smear the ink-pool depths with the grey smoke of its own immolation.

She could hear the cries of the common folk far below, filling the broad streets with their mindless terror. The riots had begun days ago, and raged unchecked in step with the fires.

‘Are you ready, my daughter?’

She turned from her contemplation to the man who had joined her on the balcony. His face was streaked with grime and a fresh cut bled slowly on a high cheekbone. The amethyst eyes that were a mirror to her own, however, were steady.

‘I am.’ She agreed resolutely, stepping forwards to rest her arm on the soft velvet of his sleeve.

The household was waiting for them in the courtyard. Her father escorted her to the steps of the heavy black iron carriage and mounted his own pale stallion as she settled herself.

Muffled orders penetrated the thick silk curtains a few moments later, and she felt the carriage jerk as a dozen horses took up the strain in their traces.

The situation beyond their high-walled home was far worse than she had imagined. Barely had they cleared the gates before the mob was pressing in, surrounding them with their innumerable starving bodies. She drew back and let the curtain drop back into place as her father shouted the order to advance and the mounted spears of their guard began to carve a bloody path towards the port.

_The prophecy is made, _she thought, _now all we need do is survive long enough to let it live._

-Chapter One-

294 AC

_How could I have thought the world outside of parchment to be not worth living in? _Anaeryn asked himself in the momentary pause as he and his opponent began once more to circle one another.

His blood burned hot in his veins, sweat matting skin under the blazing Dornish sun.

‘You can yield.’ He called out. ‘No one will think the less of you for it.’

He hadn’t truly been hoping for a response.

Leather scraped softly against sand as they marked the steps of their wary, assessing dance.

_I have to move soon. _He thought. _She has three years and forty pounds on me. Much longer and she can just let the weight of my own bloody sword defeat me._

And indeed, it seemed the same thought had occurred to her. Certainly, those wide, guileless eyes showed no hint of imminent attack.

He broke their rhythm, darting forwards with an apparently wild slash that fell suddenly into a tight cut at waist height. His overweighted tourney blade was stopped efficiently in a jar of steel against steel that ran up his arm and almost broke his movement.

Almost.

Vibrations still running through the sword, he momentarily loosened his hand on its hilt, turning his grip to curl the blade away from his opponent’s even as she pushed it in the same direction. He stepped forwards, well inside her reach, driving the lead pommel of his sword into his opponent’s stomach with all the strength he could muster. He knew that the thickly padded leather would absorb too much of the impact to make it a decisive blow, however, and shoved his knee into her groin for good measure.

As he felt her gasp and begin to fall back, he pressed his momentary advantage, following her movement and correcting his grip to slam the blunted edge of his sword into her vulnerable underarm, before sliding it down the numbed limb to slap the sword from her hand. He stepped back quickly, knowing only too well how dangerous her physical strength was at such close quarters. Managing to escape in time, he swept his blade to her throat.

‘I yield.’ She acknowledged, wincing slightly with pain.

‘So, what did you do wrong?’

They turned to face the two men who had approached.

‘I opened my guard too much, ser.’ His sparring partner began immediately, flushing slightly.

‘Not you.’ The elderly knight dismissed curtly, looking at Anaeryn.

‘I let the fight go on for too long.’ He said, receiving a brief nod.

‘And?’

‘I came in too wide at the end. If I’d managed to get my cut inside her guard then I wouldn’t have needed to risk shifting my grip.’

‘Movement was good.’ The other man interrupted, a faint smile on his sharp featured face. ‘How must we move?’

‘Like water.’ Anaeryn replied, tone halfway between dutiful and dry.

Eryn Bariol nodded, flashing his teeth.

‘Like water.’ He repeated. ‘Constant movement.’ He drew his own whip thin blade and tapped Anaeryn on the side of his leg. ‘Come. We will practise.’ He glanced at his companion. ‘You can play with this lump.’

Ser Oletus Yronwood raised an imperious hand.

‘A moment.’ He said, not remotely intimidated by the swaggering bravo. But then, he’d been Starfall’s master-at-arms for nigh on fifty years, and seen three Swords of the Morning pass through his yard. His hair had long since turned to snow, but he stood as straight and slim as the youth he had once been. The dark, predatory eyes set in his hawklike face swept over their forms.

‘You both improve rapidly.’ He acknowledged. ‘Lady Brienne. You will go with Eryn.’ He stifled the man’s protests with a wave. ‘Your movement needs work.’ His lips twisted slightly. ‘Perhaps you too might be taught to flow like a river.’ He mocked the bravo’s idiom. ‘You focus too much on where your sword is, and not nearly enough on the location of the rest of you.’

Brienne listened attentively.

‘Come.’ Eryn instructed shortly, giving in to the knight.

Ser Oletus waited until they’d moved off before addressing Anaeryn.

‘And your weakness is the opposite. You lack discipline. You move well, and have instincts that can take a decade to learn, but you take risks. The girl had plenty of opportunity to land a blow in the final exchange, and if you’d had shields then your tactic would have failed utterly.’

Anaeryn felt slightly crushed, though internally he acknowledged the truth of what his mentor was saying.

‘My lord.’ The servant inclined a respectful nod towards Ser Oletus as he approached, before returning his attention to his master. ‘Lady Allyria would like to request your company for the midday meal.’

Anaeryn glanced to the shadow of the Tower of Ash. Its stretch across the centre of the training court sand indicated both that the morning had swept past far more quickly than he’d realised, and that his aunt would soon be waiting.

-

‘You are not who you think you are.’

So began the conversation that was to change his life.

Aunt Allyria sat neatly, gowned in lavender silk, dark hair brailed up with wire of gold, as she addressed him. His solar at the top of the Palestone Sword basked in the rays of early afternoon sunlight that filtered through the tall windows and splintered on the gleaming marble floor. A table of ebony from the Summer Isles sat between them, inlaid with traceries of silver and cluttered with their repast.

He raised an eyebrow, years of training hiding any surprise he might otherwise have shown in response to her words.

‘Then might I ask who I am?’ He asked lightly, pulling a stem of grapes from a bowl.

His Aunt released a breath slowly, violet eyes playing over his face for a few moments before she spoke.

‘Your mother was, as you know, my sister Ashara.’ She paused again. ‘Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen.’

He stilled, before his gaze dropped to his plate, unseeing eyes fixed on the plump fruit, their dark skins misted with chill.

‘How?’ He asked eventually, his voice soft and confused.

‘Rhaegar and your mother met when they were both children. The prince visited Starfall frequently with Arthur; he saw it as an escape from the capital and the madness of his father. They fell in love.’ Her words came out in a rush once she’d started speaking. ‘They married. Arthur and I bore witness. In those days we were all young and impulsive. The situation was changing so quickly that all we could do was cling to one another and pray. King Aerys didn’t know, couldn’t have known. Ashara would have been killed. Besides, as soon as your father returned to the capital after the wedding, he was informed of his betrothal to Elia Martell.’

‘And he agreed?’

Allyria looked at her nephew.

‘Anaeryn. There was nothing he could do.’ She told him sorrowfully. ‘No objection he could raise without putting Ashara at risk. He was foolish, misguided; we all were, but not enough so to incur the wrath of a mad king.’

She paused, filling a glass with spring water from a crystal jug and taking a sip before continuing.

‘Rhaegar married Elia. They were not in love, but cared for one another. He gave her Aegon and Rhaenys.’

‘And abandoned my mother in the Red Mountains.’ Anaeryn rejoindered bitterly.

Allyria sighed.

‘They loved an impossible love. He visited whenever he could. Each of their partings would make your heart break. If only he had been king. The situation could have been resolved.’

‘But then the Rebellion happened.’

She nodded.

‘Aye.’

He frowned.

‘And the Tourney at Harrenhal? And Lyanna Stark?’

Allyria’s eyes darkened.

‘Lyanna Stark.’ She echoed, her voice a dispassionate caress. ‘The girl who ruined the Targaryens and brought the Seven Kingdoms to their knees.

She was betrothed to Robert Baratheon. A man with obvious flaws, even then, but handsome, a warrior, heir to the Stormlands. She was wilful, but beautiful. He obsessed over her, perhaps even loved her. She could have wrapped him around her little finger and ruled one of the Seven Kingdoms in his name. She chose not to, and Westeros paid the price.’

Her gaze bore into his with a new intensity.

‘Duty must come first. Duty must always win. That is the curse of the highborn. Every step we make, every slip over the margin of responsibility, resonates. We have consequence, and it seeps into all we do.’

She took a breath before continuing her tale.

‘She came to Rhaegar in the middle of the night and offered herself to him. Oh, she did not care for him, did not melt under his gaze nor wish to be queen. But she knew she was beautiful and desired to be free. She offered herself to him in exchange for his aid in her escape. From Robert and from responsibility.’

‘And he took her offer?’ Anaeryn asked, ire raised in defence of his mother.

She chuckled darkly.

‘No. He loved Ashara and cared not for other women. But he agreed to help. Her entreaty struck a chord. He recognised her desperation and was moved. The boy was brilliant, but a bard swept up in dreams. He won the tourney and declared Lyanna the Queen of Love and Beauty. A part of the tale in his imagination. Elia did not attend, and no doubt as a candidate Lyanna seemed as worthy to him as any other.

She donned her crown of winter roses and the following night she disappeared. Rhaegar sent the greater part of his entourage back to King’s Landing, whilst himself riding for Starfall with Lyanna and a few companions.’

‘And that was enough for Robert Baratheon to revolt against his king?’ Anaeryn demanded.

‘A combination of unfortunate circumstances, but yes; I believe it was Lyanna’s apparent kidnap that proved the spark that lit the tinder. Rhaegar remained here at Starfall for nearly a moon. He was irresponsible, but even his Martell wife and children were poor temptation to return to the capital when weighed against the arms of your mother.

Eventually we received news. Robert’s father had died. He’d called his banners. The Vale and the North followed him, partly over Lyanna, primarily because of the Mad King’s murderous excesses. Aerys is to blame for it all, of course, but I am afraid that I shall never be able to forgive that foolish little Stark. She didn’t matter, in the end; once a lord is roused to war the only solutions he sees are soaked with blood.’

He was silent.

She eyed him for a moment before beginning to serve herself some food, giving him time.

Anaeryn stood, brushing aside decorum to cross the high-vaulted room and leave his aunt sat alone at the table. The Palestone Sword speared up out of the rushing waters of the Torrentine at the southernmost point of the isle upon which Starfall lay. He unlatched and pushed open one of the large windows that faced out towards the Summer Sea, leaning out over the warm marble sill. It was from here that his mother had flung herself when he’d been naught but a babe. He stared into the azure waters of the bay at the bottom of the two hundred foot drop.

He pulled back eventually, just in time to see the sudden release of tension from his aunt’s frame.

‘Why did you tell me?’ He asked.

She swallowed a mouthful of honeyed goat’s cheese and raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘Not many people can know who my father is. If I am believed to be the son of a Hightower and a Dayne then I am safe. A Targaryen? If the King finds out I will die.’ He was surprised to note how little he felt in response to the prospect.

Aunt Allyria sighed again.

‘I believe that a child should know who their parents are. My conviction on that score would have been sufficient to persuade me to tell you.’

‘Would have?’

She smiled wryly.

‘You are too sharp sometimes, Anaeryn. For many people, you are the one who should, by right, be sat upon the Iron Throne.’

‘The throne Robert Baratheon took by right of conquest?’

‘Had Robert proved to be a good king then few would care about the prospect of a surviving Targaryen.’ She said bluntly.

The implication of her words struck him.

‘But Robert is a bad king.’

She inclined her head.

‘So, aside from the rights of succession and any personal beliefs, many would desire an alternative.’

‘You told me this because you want me on the throne?’ He asked, incredulous.

Aunt Allyria smiled sadly.

‘It is your twelfth nameday. I have watched you grow. You are brilliant, just as your father was. You have shown none of the Targaryen tendencies towards madness. Perhaps Ashara was good for the bloodline. I do not say you should claim the Iron Throne. There may, however, come a time when it would be better for most concerned if you were the one who sat it.’

‘Most?’

‘It is unlikely to be better for the thousands who would die to put you there.’

-

That night he slept and dreamt. Dreamed of worlds and times not his own, times of darkness and terror and blood and death, worlds of sorcery and spellcasting, of dragons and magic and fire. Prophecy and power and fate bound together in common cause to shape a life, to mould a saviour. A saviour of what, he did not know.


	2. Chapter 2

298 AC

‘Maester Kelos.’ Anaeryn greeted the man, looking up from the big leather-bound ledger open in front of him.

‘My lord.’ The lean old man with his short-cropped hair bowed his head before coming forwards, the chain of his order clinking softly. ‘A raven from Oldtown.’

Anaeryn nodded and thanked him, only too grateful to escape the apparently never-ending columns of accounts that seemed to occupy most of his mornings. He took the tiny furl of parchment and waved the man to a chair. Noting the minute burning tower pressed into the grey wax seal, he unrolled the missive.

‘What news, my lord?’ The maester asked curiously after an extended silence.

Anaeryn glanced at him, frowning slightly.

‘A tourney. At Oldtown.’

Maester Kelos' narrow face adopted a surprised expression.

‘Lord Hightower is hosting a tourney?’

‘Apparently so. My grandfather seems to desire my attendance.’

-

He stood at a narrow window near a thousand feet above the world, gazing out over the Whispering Sound, its film of fog burned away unusually early by the brilliance of the morning sun. His gaze tracked the progress of a half dozen pale shapes. Even from a distance that made each slighter than a fingernail held at arm’s length, their form made them instantly recognisable as sword ships; the lean, peculiar looking vessels that had spread the influence of the Lord of Starfall to the furthest reaches of the known world in less than four years.

‘You’re sure of what you have seen, Malora?’ He asked, without turning his eyes from the sight.

‘Nothing is certain.’ Replied the Mad Maid. ‘But too long have we failed to stir from our rest.’

Leyton Hightower released a slow, almost regretful sigh.

‘Then we shall meet with this young lord.’

-

Unaware of the scrutiny his progress was receiving, Anaeryn stared up at the soaring bulk of the Hightower of Oldtown. The first of the nine great wonders made by mortal man listed by Lomas Longstrider rose atop an immense pedestal of black stone jutting from the deep blue waters of the Honeywine river.

‘Big, isn’t it?’

He turned to grin at his friend. Aurane Waters, the Bastard of Driftmark, returned the expression. His blue-green eyes were the colour of the surrounding water and the fresh breeze played in his silver-gold hair. Lord Velaryon, his much older half-brother, had known of Anaeryn’s identity since shortly after his birth. The Targaryen loyalist had sent Aurane to Starfall, clearly hoping the two would become close.

‘Just as impressive as Maester Kelos promised.’ He acknowledged, scanning the expanse of docks coming into view; hundreds of stone wharfs stretching out into the water of the Sound, their lengths crowded with innumerable vessels.

His flotilla manoeuvred slowly to moorings on the eastern side of the harbour, sails almost furled,and anchored a little way from where a squadron of the immense war galleys of the Hightower fleet were arrayed in a neat line, names blazoned proudly in gold leaf upon their broad sterns.

-

‘Nephew!’ Roared a delighted voice as Anaeryn stepped onto the dock.

Garth ‘Greysteel’ Hightower, identifiable by a surcoat that bore the Hightower sigil flanked by a pair of sable longswords, stood beaming at him. He was garbed in full plate and followed by a score of equally well armoured men in his livery.

Anaeryn’s own guards, neatly formed up around him, moved aside with a word and let him forwards to embrace a man he had never met. Ser Garth was a tall, broad shouldered man with collar-length white-blonde hair, a handsome face and bright blue eyes.

‘Uncle.’ He greeted, smiling.

He was held at arm’s length and appraised.

‘You take after your mother. By the Seven she was beautiful. You’re lucky.’

Anaeryn smiled. ‘Something my aunt has oft told me. Allow me to introduce my companions.’ He said, indicating the group who’d come up to join them.

‘Perros Blackmont, son to the Lady Lyarra.’

The brown haired youth grinned cheerfully and exchanged a respectful nod with Ser Garth.

‘Ser Gerold Dayne, of High Hermitage.’

‘The notorious Darkstar?’ Ser Garth asked curiously, ‘We are honoured.’

‘Aurane Waters, brother by blood to Lord Velaryon.’

Ser Garth greeted him cheerfully, apparently unconcerned by his bastardy.

‘The Lady Brienne of Tarth.’

Brienne, who’d been hovering awkwardly behind the others, lumbered forwards shyly. A blush flamed her face when a nonplussed Ser Garth, recovering, pressed a kiss to the back of her gauntleted hand.

Anaeryn grinned.

‘And finally, it is my great honour to present my cousin, the Lady Anara Dondarrion of Starfall, daughter of my aunt and the late Lord Dondarrion.’

The girl, with her gleaming dark hair and deep violet eyes, barely reached his waist as she grasped one of her tiny hands tightly in his and smiled shyly up at Ser Garth.

She giggled slightly as he bowed deeply to her, armour creaking.

‘Your ladyship is as pretty as a princess.’

Their greetings were suddenly interrupted by the shouts of men from behind them. Turning, Anaeryn rolled his eyes to see a pair of his stablehands wrestling with a large courser they were attempting to persuade down the gangway of the ship.

‘You know to let me handle her.’ He scolded the boy clinging to the horse’s bridle as he joined them on deck. He was beginning to regret allowing his groom to remain in Starfall to look after his heavily pregnant wife.

The horse slowly calmed as he stroked her neck, eventually allowing him to lead her down onto the dock, prancing hooves clattering against the flagstones.

‘What a magnificent animal!’ Ser Garth exclaimed, admiring the fine musculature rippling under a coat that seemed to drink the light even as it shone.

‘A present from Prince Doran for my last nameday.’ Anaeryn told him, unable to keep a faint note of pride from his voice. ‘Truth be told, I think he wanted to remove Aella from the stables at Sunspear; the men who brought her told me she started fights with the other horses and wouldn’t let anyone ride her. It took me six months of battling with her and landing on my arse in the dirt before I was permitted to.’

The horse whinnied in apparent agreement. Anaeryn chuckled and reached up to scratch her between the ears.

‘Willas Tyrell will be upset.’ Ser Garth said cheerfully, apparently relishing the prospect. ‘He’s been offering the Prince a king’s ransom for a sand steed for years.’

‘I am a lord of Dorne, not the Reach.’ Anaeryn reminded him.

Garth frowned.

‘Well, you’re a Hightower to me.’ He said firmly, before continuing. ‘I’d better take you to see father before he gets annoyed.’

‘I would be delighted to meet with Lord Leyton.’ Anaeryn agreed. ‘Will you be accompanying me?’ He asked his companions.

Perros took the lead.

‘I’m just grateful to be back on dry land. If it meets with your lordship’s approval then I’d rather get some rest.’

Ser Garth raised an eyebrow at the obvious deference.

‘Of course.’ Anaeryn agreed, as the others took their lead from Perros and made their excuses, Brienne with considerable reluctance. ‘And who will you be going with, my lady?’ He asked Anara.

She gripped his hand tighter and pressed herself to his side without responding.

‘I take it you’ll be accompanying me, then.’ He grinned. ‘Ferryon?’

‘Here, my lord.’

‘My squire, Ferryon Fowler.’ He introduced the small dark haired boy to Ser Garth, who was diplomatic enough to avoid mentioning that, devoid of a knighthood, he didn’t technically merit a squire.

‘Ser Joe,’ Anaeryn turned to address the captain of his guards, ‘you have charge of setting up our encampment. I’m sure my uncle can spare a man to guide you to the tourney grounds?’ He asked, glancing at Ser Garth, who nodded.

’Rodrick, you stay and make yourself useful.’

One of the men in plate detached himself.

Anaeryn swung himself up onto Aella, before taking a smiling Anara from the arms of one of his guards and settling her in front of him.

‘I will join you gentlemen later.’ He told his companions as Ser Garth and his squad mounted, along with Ferryon and the four men at arms Ser Joe ordered to escort him.

-

‘Oldtown is beautiful.’ Anaeryn felt forced to comment as they rode from the port

‘Aye. The fairest city in the world by some accounts.’ Ser Garth agreed proudly.

‘It compares favourably to the Free Cities I have visited.’ Anaeryn told him, admiring the ornate, clifflike frontages of the guildhalls along the waterfront on the far side of the Honeywine.

‘So I have been told, though I have never made the journey across the Narrow Sea.’

The city was packed. The main streets were broad, straight thoroughfares, well paved and neatly maintained, crawling with people about their daily business. Narrower lanes led off at frequent intervals, cobblestoned and winding.

‘How much of this is because of the tourney?’ Anaeryn asked, gesturing towards the bustle as they crossed a large market-filled square where the air was heavy with sweet perfumes and the smell of roasting meat.

‘Little.’ Garth replied. ‘Father has built an encampment the size of Ashford beyond the city walls to cater to its needs.’

The populace seemed willing to press to either side to make way for the riders bearing the banner of their overlord, and it was thus a matter of minutes to reach the bridge that connected the eastern bank of the Honeywine to black stone fastness of Battle Island. At a distance of less than two hundred yards the citadel of the Hightowers that rose from its centre seemed to tear the very sky in twain, a shining spear of carved stone that ascended endlessly before Anaeryn’s eyes, its distant pinnacle enveloped by a bank of low cloud.

The group of riders trotted unmolested through the three great gatehouses that sat at intervals along the bridge, each the size of a minor keep and guarding a causeway wide enough to permit the passage of ten men abreast.

A series of steps cut into the basalt of the island and sufficiently shallow for the horses to climb led up to the entrance of the tower itself, where a dozen liveried grooms stood waiting to take their mounts.

The men of their escort followed the horses to disperse back to their barracks, whilst those standing in front of the doors to the tower pressed their weight against the enormous masses of carved bronze. Anaeryn’s breath caught in his throat as they stepped into an impossibly vast hall. Acres of pale grey marble polished to a mirror-sheen stretched out before him. Columns of dark green stone, each as wide as a farmer’s cottage, stretched upwards to support a dizzying network of delicate vaults, and the marble of the floor rose seamlessly to form the low walls of a shallow pool in the centre of the hall. Beams of sunlight filtered through the jewel-coloured panes of narrow windows blazoned with a thousand heraldic emblems to fall dancing in the water.

Ser Garth led Anaeryn around the edge of the room, past towering statues of ancient Hightower kings who stared at him through eyes of precious stone. They arrived eventually at a door that led to a peculiar contraption. It was a steel cage, floor panelled in wood, circular and perhaps eight feet in diameter. Looking up to where it closed in a yard above their heads, Anaeryn could see several lengths of thick braided metal cable running through a series of pulleys.

Before he could do anything more than suppose the device’s function, it jerked into motion.

Ser Garth grinned at Anara’s squeak of surprise before explaining. ‘When it was built the tower only had a pair of stairways, but it took a young knight a third of an hour to climb to the top. One of our ancestors invented this system. Lord Hewgo Hightower built six shafts into the walls of the tower and constructed these cages to fit them. We hang them from steel cables and use pulleys and counterweights to pull them up the tower.’

‘Brilliant.’ Anaeryn acknowledged, smiling at his uncle’s apparent enthusiasm.

The journey was remarkably fast and smooth, even though cage had to be swapped between cables three times. Ser Garth informed them that this was because it was impossible to produce cable of sufficient length and strength to carry the cage to the top of the eight hundred foot tower in a single span.

At the end of their travel they found themselves suspended before a pair of doors of polished oak. They were opened, along with the door of the cage, by guards who helped them alight into the well lit passageway beyond.

‘This is where father lives.’

Ser Garth knocked on another set of doors at the end of the hallway.

‘Enter.’

Garth opened the doors and went in.

Anaeryn followed after him, gesturing his own guards to remain outside. He let out an impressed breath as he took in the space beyond. The airy chamber filled the whole southern side of the tower. The space was ringed by clear glass windows, the stone floor thick with Myrish carpets and scattered with furnishings to shame a king.

Its sole occupant stood facing them. He was old, and clearly somewhat frail, but his tall frame was erect as he walked over to greet them.

-

Lord Hightower faced the doors to his chamber and examined the three visitors who followed his son in.

The younger boy looked like a Fowler; the only notable family of stony Dornishmen who tended after the appearance of their coast dwelling fellows. The young girl was clearly a Dayne; dark hair and large violet eyes in a strikingly pretty face. The youth whose hand she clutched was more interesting. His hair was the same shade as the girl’s, his skin turned to gold by the Dornish sun. In the pale light from the windows his eyes shone their true rich indigo. _Yes, _he thought with satisfaction, _the old bloods burn strong._

‘Welcome to Oldtown.’ He greeted them warmly.‘The seas have been remarkably calm for the past week so I hope you had a smooth voyage.’ He smiled before focusing on the two companions. ‘Mr Fowler, Lady Dayne, you must excuse my rudeness, but I beg your indulgence for allowing me to speak with my grandson alone.’

The young Lord Dayne’s eyes narrowed slightly as his little cousin glared at the old man, but he turned to his squire after a moment.

‘Ferryon, would you look after Anara whilst we speak?’ He asked.

His squire nodded, and gently disengaged the girl.

‘Perhaps you could keep our guests entertained, Garth?’ Lord Leyton asked his son, who escorted the pair from the chamber.

-

Lord Hightower waved a hand towards a chair.

‘Please sit. Refreshments are being arranged.’

Anaeryn settled opposite him.

‘Sixteen namedays.’ The old man commented. ‘A child of the Rebellion.’

‘An of-age child of the Rebellion.’ He corrected smoothly, receiving a thin smile in response.

A quiet knock at the door gave them pause as a pair of servants came in to lay out jugs of wine, water, and plates of honey cakes on a table. The silence remained unbroken until they’d left.

‘Why do you stain your hair?’ Asked an innocent voice.

Anaeryn stilled in the act of turning towards the speaker.

_They know._

A stooped woman who looked perhaps three score years, but might have been younger, stood slowly and approached from the far side of the room.

Anaeryn cursed the fact that he hadn’t noticed her unmoving form when he’d entered.

‘Malora.’ Leyton greeted the woman. ‘Join us.’

Forcing aside shock, Anaeryn found his curiosity piqued. So this was the Mad Maid. Lord Leyton’s eldest daughter. A rumoured witch, who was supposed to have been born behind the Hightower’s lofty walls and never since left their embrace.

‘I am honoured to meet your ladyship.’ He said, rising to kiss a wrinkled hand.

She laughed wheezily.

‘I never thought to honour a prince.’ She said, grasping for a cup of wine.

Anaeryn supposed that dispelled any doubts.

‘I’m sorry?’ He asked, maintaining a pretence he knew to be lost.

‘Prince Anaeryn Targaryen. Son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and the Lady Ashara Dayne. Known as Lord Anaeryn Dayne of Starfall, but not, I think, as the legitimate Targaryen claimant to the Iron Throne.’ Malora said slowly in her low, gravelly voice.

_It’s not even worth pretending, then._

‘And thus not the son of Geraynt Hightower.’ He added, attempting to mask his discomfort.

Lord Leyton interjected.

‘Ashara was half a Hightower.’ He said. ‘You are my great nephew, rather than grandson, but still family.’

Anaeryn inclined his head slowly, gaze darting between the two as he tried desperately to work out what was going on.

Luckily, his hosts seemed willing to explain.

‘You must be wondering why we dragged you here.’ The old lord continued pleasantly. ‘Only to give you a name that might lose you your head.’

‘The thought had occurred to me,’ he agreed.

Lord Leyton sighed.

‘Perhaps I should allow my daughter to explain.’

Malora sat in her chair staring blankly at him, her face framed by wild silver hair beginning to lose its lustre and fade to white. It was somewhat unnerving. Her eyes were large and palest blue, swamping pupils too small even for the bright room.

‘I am a Watcher.’ She whispered.

‘A watcher?’ Anaeryn asked curiously when she seemed unwilling to continue.

‘What do you know of glass candles?’ Lord Leyton asked.

‘You can light a glass candle?’ He asked Malora, unable to conceal his surprise.

She stood in silence, disappearing to her corner before returning, a jagged column of dark green obsidian held upright in her grasp. She placed the fat base on the table between their three chairs and Anaeryn watched, fascinated, as she pressed the fleshy part of her left palm against a razor edge, allowing a drop of blood to fall.

It did not come to touch the candle, but stopped, suspended an inch above the tip for a moment before hissing and evaporating in a cloud of smoke that lingered and brightened. Eventually Anaeryn was forced to narrow his eyes against the brilliant white glare of the flame that hovered, frozen, atop the candle.

Shadows formed at its base, seeming to shift and curl in strange patterns beneath his half-lidded gaze. He looked up briefly to ensure that the room was still as bright as it had been, that the sun hadn’t momentarily disappeared behind a wisp of cloud. But no, there was no rational explanation for the flows of darkness that sprawled across the table’s gleaming surface.

A moment later Malora slapped down her hand and extinguished it.

‘You can light a glass candle.’ Anaeryn repeated. ‘How much can you see?’

‘My daughter has seen much.’ Leyton replied softly.

‘A thousand spans of time and possibility. Spiderwebs of truth and lies sprawling before me, twisting and spiralling into the abyss. I have witnessed events long since passed from dragons’ wings, settled as a raven in the rafters of King Roberts court a thousand miles away. Even flickers of what might be to come have flashed before my gaze.’

Malora smiled slowly.

‘I have seen your birth.’ She added. ‘Night-dark hair and violet eyes. Silken sheets slicked with sweat and blood, and the crying of a prophesied babe in the arms of a mother soon to die.’

Anaeryn felt cold.

‘Dragons have returned to the world.’ The Mad Maid declared solemnly.

He frowned at her words, turning them over in his head and getting nowhere. ‘Might I ask why I am here?’ He asked eventually.

‘Of course.’ Lord Leyton agreed generously, standing and walking slowly to the nearest window.

‘What do you know of House Hightower?’ He asked, back turned to them as he surveyed the harbour.

_That my father wasn’t of it. _Anaeryn thought flippantly.

‘That you’ve done everything possible to distance yourself from the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms since the Dance of the Dragons.’

The old man chuckled.

‘You ignore our wealth, our influence, our power, a history that stretches back to the Dawn of Days. To insult us?’ He sounded more curious than offended.

‘Not at all. Your wealth is, to all accounts, vast. Your influence and power, within their sphere, absolute. Your lineage is ancient and impeccable.’ He acknowledged. ‘But to me? To those who live beyond the Honeywine? You seem disinterested. I speak not to insult, but rather to emphasise my curiosity at being summoned.’

‘Far from disinterested.’ Leyton noted. ‘Just reluctant to intercede. Something I expect will change.’ He exhaled heavily. ‘I want to make you my heir.’

_What?_

‘I’m sorry?’ He asked for the second time, bewildered.

Lord Leyton turned to look at him steadily, leaning back against the stone sill.

‘I would like you to be my heir.’ He repeated calmly. ‘You have adopted an ancient name and house, and Starfall is beautiful.’ He acknowledged. ‘You’ve managed it well, but I offer you Oldtown. A city the size of King’s Landing, and twice as wealthy.’

‘Why?’

He noticed the old man’s hands tense.

‘Baelor, my eldest son and heir apparent, is a warrior with little administrative skill.’ He began slowly, as though picking his words carefully. ‘That might be sufficient to be lord of a lesser or more warlike house, but not Lord of Oldtown. My other, admittedly numerous, children and grandchildren I have deemed unsuitable for various reasons.’

‘Unsuitable enough for you to turn to a Targaryen? Even meeting with me, knowing of my identity, without arresting me is treason.’

Lord Leyton smiled.

‘I do not think it is yet the time for King Robert to know of you. Tell me, do you know what people say of your activities at Starfall?’

‘They tell wild stories, most possessing very little truth.’

‘The common folk, perhaps, although some of your achievements would be difficult to exaggerate. I wager, however, that my own informants have provided me with more accurate reports.’

‘No doubt.’ Anaeryn agreed drily.

‘Four years. The time it has taken to turn a small town at the mouth of a river in the mountains of Dorne into one of the great ports of the Seven Kingdoms. The invention and large-scale export of powdersweet and watersteel. Hitherto unprecedented access to and trade agreements with the Summer Isles. And, within the last six turns, rumours of a lending operation on the model of the Iron Bank.’

‘A remarkably neat summation.’ Anaeryn acknowledged. ‘Although I still find myself curious about your own interest.’

‘Aside from my own port revenues having dropped by almost a fourth in the last three years?’

‘I would imagine most of that is due to the Ironborn, rather than my activities.’

‘True. They have become something of an irritation.’

‘You still haven't answered my question.’

The old man sighed.

‘About why I want you to be my heir? I suppose not. I will it because Malora has advised me to.’

Anaeryn looked curiously at the Mad Maid.

‘You will lead House Hightower either to its final and utter destruction, or a golden age that will last a thousand years.’

‘Remarkably unequivocal.’ He thought for a moment before addressing Lord Leyton. ‘But why should you want to take the risk?’

‘Malora is sometimes mistaken.’ He acknowledged. ‘But she saw the truth of your identity, and raised the possibility of you as an heir. We have all heard the doom-laden prophecies spouted in ever increasing numbers recently. The skies are too full of portents, the king is weak and the people unhappy. A long winter is coming. There will be war, the only question is when. Even across the Narrow Sea there are rumours. The world is changing, and I find myself unwilling to be swept along.’

Anaeryn paused to think.

‘But you could allow yourself to be? Remain as isolated as possible, support the winning party. You have enough power and wealth to buy favour and forgiveness from any side.’ _As your house has done so many times before, _he added internally.

‘Not in this conflict, according to my daughter. There will be no neutrality in the end.’ The Lord of Oldtown seemed burdened by the words. That was unsurprising, when to all accounts he had stayed at the top of his tower listening to the sorcerous whispers of his daughter for more than a decade.

‘Do you expect me to make a play for the throne?’ Anaeryn asked curiously.

Lord Leyton smiled. 'I’m helping to enable it.’

‘But you could support me without making me your heir. Just pledge your swords and loyalty and expect favour in turn, whilst retaining your independence and succession.’

The Mad Maid released a wild laugh, shocking in its suddenness.

Lord Leyton eyed his daughter before addressing him.

‘You think the Hightower ambition, so long to rouse, has such limits?’ He asked with a quirk of his lips.

Anaeryn kept his expression blank and waited for the man to continue.

‘You would become the Lord of Oldtown upon my death.’ He began, as if that part of the proposition hadn’t already been made clear. ‘When you would lead the house then bargaining for rewards or favour on its part seems pointless. I merely wish for Oldtown to become capital of the Seven Kingdoms. As it should always have been.’

_Ah._

‘And by making me your heir and giving your house to me, you solve the problem of a city having both a ruling house and a king within its walls.’

‘Precisely.’

‘You propose we use my supposed father and lineage to justify the claim publicly?’

Lord Leyton nodded. ‘Perhaps Geraynt can serve the family in death, as he failed to in life.’

Geraynt had been Lord Leyton’s youngest son, and squire to Lord Commander Gerold Hightower during the Rebellion. He’d fled the fighting in the Dornish marches, and ended up arriving exhausted and half starved at Starfall some weeks later. Only his use as a convenient father to the Lady Ashara’s pregnancy had saved him a deserter’s execution. Where he was the fifth son of a great house, she and her sister had been the last threads by which the fate of another hung. Thankfully, Geraynt’s shame had made him more than amenable to taking his wife’s name, and thus securing the Dayne succession.

‘Was the tourney organised solely to lure me in?’ Anaeryn asked curiously.

‘No. It was convenient in that respect, but its main purpose is to introduce you as my heir. It will be held in your honour.’

‘Which means I cannot compete.’

‘Not at all. You are reputed to be notably martial. I should think a display of your prowess warranted by the circumstances. If you unhorse a few of my bannermen then they may prove more eager to respect you.’

‘And marriage? Do you expect to betroth me to a granddaughter?’

Lord Leyton chuckled.

‘Margaery Tyrell is one of my granddaughters. A marriage to her would bring the remaining strength of the Reach under your banners.’

_A hundred thousand swords, they say Lord Mace can field. Even the other six kingdoms united would struggle to hold against such a force. And the Tyrells have desired one of their own on the throne for centuries._

-

‘So, what did the old man want with you?’ Aurane asked eagerly, making himself comfortable in a chair in Anaeryn’s pavilion.

‘To make me his heir.’ He replied bluntly.

Gerold looked up from peeling a fireplum with a pocket knife to raise a surprised eyebrow at him. Aurane was less reserved.

‘What?’ He demanded.

Anaeryn recounted the meeting to them.

Gerold gave an impressed whistle at the end of his tale.

‘Lord of Oldtown. It has a certain ring about it.’


	3. Chapter 3

‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Margaery Tyrell breathed as the head of their column crested the last ridge, her saddle sores quite forgotten in the excitement of finally laying eye upon the enormous honeystone city and the tourney grounds beyond its walls.

‘Yes, dear sister.’ Ser Loras agreed, eyes eagerly sweeping the colourful ranks of pavilions. ‘They say a thousand knights are in attendance. Larger even than the great Tourney at Harrenhal.’ He paused, and Margaery could see the eagerness in his eyes dim slightly as he frowned. ‘It makes one wonder why Lord Leyton has decided to host such a spectacle.’

Margaery gave a delicate shrug.

‘It’s just the Hightowers flaunting their wealth.’ She declared, before pressing her heels into the gleaming chestnut flanks of her palfrey.

They reached the outskirts of the encampment after another hour, progress slowed by the pace of the huge, creaking wheelhouse Margaery had refused to make use of since leaving Highgarden.

‘Ser Loras, Lady Margaery.’ A beaming knight greeted them. ‘We are honoured by your presence.’

‘Ser Garth.’ Loras greeted the man with a smile. ‘We are delighted to be here. I fear, however, that my sister is tired from the ride.’ He ignored the frown Margaery threw at him. ‘We would appreciate some space to set up our camp so that we might rest a little before dinner.’

Lord Hightower’s son nodded.

‘Of course.’

‘We must be nearly the last to arrive.’ Margaery mused aloud as the knight led them through gaps in the concentric rings of tents and towards the centre of the grounds. ‘If even House Royce is here.’ She continued, noting the iron studs on a bronze field banner staked outside a large tent similarly emblazoned.

‘Indeed.’ Ser Garth agreed. ‘Father was most upset to hear of Lord Mace’s illness. You have arrived in time, however: the opening rounds of the archery contest are to be held on the day after the morrow, and the jousts begin the day after that.’ Ser Garth told them cheerfully.

‘Father would have loved dearly to to join us, and he seemed to be recovering when we departed Highgarden. The maesters feared, however, that the ride would have endangered his recovery.’ Margaery said as they arrived at the innermost ring of pavilions, which formed a rough oval a half mile long that contained the stands and grounds for the various competitions.

The flags of the Great Houses in attendance stood in a line facing southwards. The two Tyrells noted that with their arrival the the only missing sigils were the Stark direwolf and the moon and falcon of the Arryns.

‘The king was expected to attend.’ Garth told them conspiratorially. ‘But then Lord Arryn died.’

‘The hand is dead?’ Loras asked, shocked. ‘We heard nothing on the road.’

‘We received a raven two days ago with the news. His Grace was halfway down the Roseroad when Jon Arryn was struck down by some ailment and breathed his last within the space of a few hours. King Robert turned the court around and is now heading north to invite Lord Stark to be the replacement. Lord Stannis is here to represent His Grace.’

‘Lord Stark? An interesting choice.’ Loras mused.

‘Would you gentlemen consider continuing your conversation in more civilised surroundings?’ Margaery interjected sweetly.

‘Of course, my lady.’ Garth agreed immediately.

Loras merely grinned unapologetically at his sister as they were led to the Hightower pavilion, a huge construction of smoke grey silk panels that billowed in the warm breeze.

‘I suppose the king has taken the Kingsguard with him?’ Loras asked as they settled, disappointed.

Margaery rolled her eyes at his antics as her ladies fussed around arranging her skirts and the furniture, the rest of the column dismissed to set up their encampment.

‘Yes, Ser Loras. Aside from the Cleganes, however, almost every other knight of repute in the kingdoms is in attendance.’ Garth declared proudly.

‘The Cleganes? The Hound is not a knight. The Mountain should not be a knight.’

Garth nodded hastily.

‘Indeed. Your reputation, of course, precedes you, Ser Loras. I pray that we have some competitors who prove worthy opponents.’ He said earnestly. ‘Ser Addam Marbrand, Lord Dondarrion, Ser Robar Royce. Even Lord Dayne is reputedly a fine jouster.’

Loras’ eyes sharpened with interest.

‘The notorious Lord Dayne is here? I don’t recall having heard of him attending any tourneys in the past. He’s reportedly been very busy starting wars on the edge of the world.’ He said wryly.

‘I understand this is indeed the first formal tourney His Lordship has taken part in. I’m sure you’ll be able to meet him this evening.’

‘Is a reception planned?’ Margaery inquired.

‘Lord Dayne arrived a fortnight ago and, when not taking meals with my father, has been entertaining in his own encampment. There’s a standing invitation to everyone of note, but I’m quite certain he will send a personal message to yourself and your brother, my lady.’

Margaery sniffed slightly.

‘It seems odd that a man who is not of the Seven Houses, or Lord Hightower,’ she conceded, ‘should be the host.’

Garth grinned.

‘You haven’t met His Lordship.’

-

‘Must we attend?’ Margaery asked her brother that evening, sounding mildly exasperated.

Loras just grinned at her.

‘Why not? Ser Garth has made me curious, besides, I want to meet the competition.’

She sighed, gesturing a couple of maids over to fasten the back of the gown she’d been persuaded to half put on.

‘You look beautiful, dear sister.’ Loras told her admiringly when she turned away from the mirror to face him. She smiled, smoothing the gauzy leaf green silk of her skirts.

‘And you very handsome.’ She acknowledged, absentmindedly returning the compliment.

Loras took her arm and led her from the tent. A dozen knights and ladies chosen to accompany them to the feast drew in around them and added their cheerful conversation to the balmy evening. Four guards in full plate, two each for Loras and Margaery and whom their father insisted upon as a constant accompaniment, fell into step behind the party.

‘Oh my.’ Margaery breathed.

The Dayne encampment, presumably taking advantage of an early arrival, formed its own circle of tents. All of them were matching silk of deep purple scattered with stars embroidered in silver thread. Standing outside a few were the sigils of minor nobles and landed knights. On the far side of the ring, opposite the gap that formed its entrance, was a great pavilion, at the entrance to which stood two guards in gleaming black enamelled plate flanking a pair of large banners bearing the sword and falling star of House Dayne.

The space in the centre was a blaze of merriment. Long tables surrounded the four sides of a square set aside, presumably, for dancing, but in which a pair of acrobats with the dark skin of the Summer Isles were presently cavorting. The chairs, rather than benches, Loras noted to his surprise, surrounding the tables were perhaps a quarter full. Guests milled around, fine clothes glowing in the warm light given off by large numbers of candles and torches.

Barely had they passed the entrance before they were accosted by a pair of liveried servants bearing trays of goblets.

Margaery hummed approvingly as she took a sip of the dusky Dornish red.

‘He serves good wine. Perhaps coming wasn’t such a mistake.’ She acknowledged grudgingly.

‘Good evening!’ Exclaimed a voice. ‘Lady Margaery and Ser Loras, I presume?’ Asked the handsome blonde-haired man as he swept them a bow and pressed a kiss to the back of Margaery’s hand.

‘Indeed.’ Loras agreed pleasantly. ‘Might I ask you own name, good Ser?’

‘No Ser yet, I’m afraid. Aurane Waters.’ He introduced himself cheerfully, apparently not at all embarrassed by his bastardy. ‘I’m sure Anaeryn will be over to greet you properly, but he's presently rather entangled with the Lady Genna.’

‘Genna Lannister?’ Margaery asked.

‘Yes. She and Ser Kevan are here with several other branches of the family. They tell us Lord Tywin is otherwise engaged.’

Loras laughed.

‘It takes more than a tourney to drag the Old Lion from his rock.’

‘Indeed it does.’ Purred an amused voice.

‘Anaeryn!’ Exclaimed Aurane, smiling.

Loras turned and caught his breath as he found himself facing the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. They were of a height, and age. Lord Dayne echoed his friend’s expression, revealing even, white teeth. He was dressed in a doublet of indigo velvet, a delicate tracery of gold thread its only decoration. Loras felt uncomfortably warm as his eyes rose from absent admiration of the youth’s lithely muscled form to drown in a gaze that seemed midnight dark in the candlelight.

-

Anaeryn stilled for a moment.

He’d noted the arrival of the Tyrells from the corner of his eye, such a large block of green and gold difficult to miss.

Genna Lannister had proved difficult to extricate himself from, however. He’d wondered initially whether the woman, old enough to be his grandmother, was propositioning him. It turned out, though, that she had merely deemed him a suitable candidate for betrothal to one of her apparently numerous great nieces.

He breathed a sigh of relief once he finally managed to escape, brushing off all attempts to engage him in conversation as he made his way towards the party from Highgarden. He was relieved to see Aurane being his usual self, even as he took in the rear form of the man his friend was speaking to.

‘Indeed it does.’ He interjected smoothly, catching the tail end of a conversation about the Lannisters. Aurane greeted him enthusiastically as the pair he had been speaking to turned their heads towards him.

_Seven help me._

Anaeryn found his stare trapped by a pair of eyes of liquid gold.

‘Ser Loras, Lady Margaery.’ He greeted the pair after a second, stumbling to recover his courtesies and hoping that he’d been smooth enough to avoid note.

‘Lord Dayne, I assume?’ Margaery asked, openly admiring their host.

Anaeryn inclined his head in acknowledgement before smiling at her. The mere presence of her brother made it difficult to focus on the exquisitely beautiful girl Lord Leyton had suggested he marry.

‘I am honoured that you chose to attend, my lady, and have allowed us to bask in your presence.’

She blushed faintly as she acknowledged the compliment.

‘And we, to have been invited.’ She added. ‘The setting is beautiful.’ She continued, indicating the silk awnings and artfully arranged plants decorating the space.

‘To hear such praise from a maid raised amidst the terraces of Highgarden is a compliment I shall treasure. As is having the opportunity to meet a warrior of your renown, Ser Loras.’ Anaeryn added, feeling sweat beneath his clothing.

Loras smiled, drinking in the praise.

‘Ser Garth was praising your own skill at arms, my lord.’

Anaeryn laughed, though it sounded a little strained to his ears.

‘I’m sure he exaggerates my talents; Ser Garth has had little enough opportunity to see them. Anyway, please, come, take a seat. The food should be arriving soon.’

-

The evening that followed seemed a whirl of brilliant colours and exotic music to Loras and Margaery, of strange tastes and surreal enjoyment. Fire dancers took the place of the acrobats in the centre of the tables, blowing the shapes of fantastical creatures from burning torches and swallowing many-shaded flames to the delight of the onlookers. A Qartheen minstrel serenaded them with a peculiar many-stringed instrument and a high voice that curled oddly around the words of the Common Tongue.

The two of them found themselves almost worryingly at ease in the company of Lord Dayne, who charmed and laughed and entertained his guests even as they were presented with a feast that would have made Lord Mace sorry to miss it.

Groups of dishes were presented sequentially, Lord Dayne explaining that it had become a custom in Starfall to present dishes of similar contents together, before proceeding to the next course. The produce he’d managed to buy in the markets of Oldtown had been prepared under the instruction of a chef the young lord claimed to have stolen from a Myrish magister. Enormous flatfish taken from the depths of the Sunset Sea were presented in great dishes, coated in delicate sauces of citrus and capers and cream. Sides of beef drenched with honey and Dornish mustard, roasted over huge pits of charcoal, were carved in front of the guests by a cook wielding a sword. The end of the meal saw a gleaming white model of the Hightower itself brought out, taller than any of the guests, and formed from what Lord Dayne informed them was a paste formed from the powdersweet his lands produced and exported.

It was cut up carefully and a piece presented to each guest, accompanied by trays of cakes soaked in perfumed alcohols from Yi Ti. Those in attendance could be heard muttering loudly about the extravagance; even in the Reach, a short journey by sea from Starfall, powdersweet was prohibitively costly.

Internally, mellowed by several goblets of the glorious wine Lord Dayne had shipped with him, Margaery acknowledged that such extravagance had indeed merited her attendance. The display was rapidly crystallising the truth of many wild rumours that had swept through Highgarden.

She retained a sufficient amount of her normally sharp wits, however, to note the frequent glances her brother was casting Lord Dayne when he wasn’t looking, and, more interestingly, that the attention was being reciprocated.

-

Anaeryn was doing his best. And, in truth, the evening had seemingly been another unqualified success. The powdersweet model saved for the arrival of the Tyrells had been brought out to suitable exclamations of delight. Borros had surpassed himself once again, with food good enough to delight even the palettes jaded by a fortnight of his feasts.

But Loras Tyrell hadn’t been factored into his calculations, which suddenly seemed of rather less importance in his presence. Anaeryn had done his best to avoid becoming distracted, focusing on charming the Lady Genna, to his right, and Lady Margaery, on his left. Unfortunately, Ser Loras sat on his sister’s other side, and ended up a part of their conversation. And he proved to possess more than a captivating face and form, with a wicked smile and an easy wit that Anaeryn couldn’t help but be caught up by.

-

‘My lady, might I have the honour?’

Margaery turned her head towards Lord Dayne and blushed demurely, dabbing at her lips with the fine linen cloth held out by one of her handmaidens.

‘It would be my pleasure, my lord.’ She replied softly, standing with him and placing her arm on his as their attendants hastily pulled their chairs back.

A hush settled over the assembly as they watched their host and Mace Tyrell’s daughter rise and make their way around the head table to take to the now unoccupied space at the centre of the feast.

Margaery couldn’t help but feel her heart beat faster as Lord Dayne took one of her hands gently in his. He took his place next to her and lifted their joined hands to shoulder height before nodding to the cluster of musicians gathered just beyond the guests.

The two of them moved naturally into the measured steps of a courtly dance typical of the Reach. They were soon joined by other pairs, and Margaery could hear Genna Lannister demanding the hand of one of the younger generation of Lannister men who’d trailed after her from Casterly Rock. She glanced towards the head table to see Lord Stannis rising stiffly at his wife’s insistence, clearly reluctant to partake in too much festivity.

But what was happening around her merited only the slightest attention when the warmth of Lord Dayne’s hand at her waist seemed to to burn through the thin layers of silk. His gleaming purple eyes, deep as the Summer Sea, were fixed on her doe brown with an intensity that made her want to doubt the looks she’d seen him giving her brother.

And he could dance. These were steps she’d been learning since almost the moment she could walk. Her mother had determined to wrest some control over her daughter back from the Lady Olenna by teaching her the womanly arts, and so Margaery could sing and play the high harp and blush at will as well as discuss politics and manipulate men without their knowing. And all agreed that there were none in Highgarden who could dance as well as she.

But Lord Dayne’s instruction had clearly been comprehensive, and his natural grace was more than equal to her own. Even when the music quickened, assuming an unfamiliar Dornish intensity, she found herself slipping effortlessly into the new rhythms, movement deftly guided by the sure fluidity of her host.

When at last the music stilled she found herself breathing far more rapidly than her mother would surely have approved of. She smiled back instinctively at Lord Dayne’s grin.

‘You dance superbly, Lady Margaery.’ He declared, pressing a kiss to her fingers.

The warmth in her cheeks came involuntarily.

‘As do you, my lord. I fear I found myself unfamiliar with the dances from your homeland.’

He laughed.

‘It was impossible to tell, my lady; I couldn’t help but think that you had a Dornish dancing master.’

He glanced around those who’d stayed on the floor with them before leaning in.

‘It was not an assumption I made about anyone else.’

She was horrified to find herself giggling as he flashed her a gleaming smile, shivering at the feeling of his warm breath on her neck. She was a flowered maiden of four and ten namedays, the jewel of Highgarden, of the Reach, of House Tyrell. She was the heir to the throne of the Queen of Thorns, not some simpering child to be taken in by a few pretty words and an inhumanly attractive face.

She looked up from her musings to find Lord Dayne’s attentions fixed elsewhere. She followed the direction of his stare to find her brother, standing in the shadow of a tent, gazing back unblinkingly.

She put her hand gently on his arm after a few uncomfortable seconds, which seemed to rouse him from his reverie.

-

‘The bow is a weapon for women and cowards.’ Lancel Lannister declared sourly, before storming off.

Anaeryn rolled his eyes at the retreating form, tying a pouch of gold to his belt as he turned to a snickering Aurane.

‘Why aren’t you competing?’ He asked his friend suspiciously.

‘Well, there’s not much competition without you there.’

‘With you not taking part I wasn’t sure who to put money on.’ Anaeryn scolded him.

‘You don’t seem to have done too badly?’ Aurane asked, tilting his head in the direction of the departed Lannister.

‘Oh, that? I just wagered that all the competitors from the Westerlands would be out before any of mine.’

Aurane snorted.

‘Has he not heard of the archers of the Dornish mountains?’ He asked with mock affront.

‘Well, two hundred dragons suggest he has now.’ Anaeryn replied. ‘You’re not taking part in the joust or the melee either?’

Aurane shrugged.

‘No point. The archery I would have had a chance at, particularly seeing as you haven’t deigned to compete, but I’m shit at jousting and only a mediocre swordsman.’

Anaeryn shook his head as they walked back from the competition stands towards their tents.

‘You’re not bad with a sword.’ He protested. ‘Although, I admit, the jousting needs work.’

Aurane laughed.

‘I think I’ll just rely on Gerold to land you on your arse.’

‘He hasn’t bested me since my last nameday.’ Anaeryn objected.

‘Well, maybe that Tyrell will have to do the honours.’ Aurane added, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

Anaeryn fought his blush.

‘I’m sure he’ll prove a worthy competitor.’

Aurane smirked.

‘He’s supposed to be very good with a lance.’

‘Apparently.’ Anaeryn noted neutrally.

Aurane laughed.

-

‘How many in the crowd?’ Anaeryn asked, as Ferryon tightened the straps fastening his breastplate to his backplate.

‘No idea. Thousands.’ Aurane replied, lounging in a chair with a goblet of wine.

‘And ten tiltyards?’

Aurane nodded.

‘A thousand and fifteen entries to the lists. Even with ten yards they’ll struggle to get through them all.’

‘Did you manage to find anything out about my first opponent?’

Aurane raised an eyebrow.

‘It’s not very chivalrous to ask for inside information.’

‘Just tell me.’

Aurane shrugged.

‘Not much. Hedge knight. Good enough to have a suit of plate and a horse that will trot in the right direction. A couple of people I spoke to remember him winning a minor tourney. Shouldn’t be anything to worry about.’

‘Good.’ Anaeryn grinned at his friend as he shifted about to check the fastenings of his armour.

‘Ready?’ Aurane asked, rising. ‘I suppose I’d better go and find somewhere in the stands to cheer your opponents.’

‘Why don’t you bet on them as well?’ Anaeryn challenged.

Aurane grinned.

‘Maybe I will.’ He said, before leaving.

Anaeryn shook his head at his friend’s antics before nodding his approval to his squire.

‘You look very impressive, my lord.’ Ferryon Fowler said proudly, stepping back.

‘Thank you.’Anaeryn acknowledged pleasantly, ‘We should just hope that my skills are equally so.’

-

A thousand knights, squires, and men who fell into neither category but still wanted gold and glory, sat on their horses before the main stand of the tourney grounds. The lines started evenly, as those at the head of the parade that had processed around the tilts to the cheers of the smallfolk were knights with formal training and costly warhorses. Beyond them, however, the neatly serried ranks descended into an amorphous mass of the less disciplined. Anaeryn thought Lord Leyton was attempting to appear even-handed by breaking with the Reach’s tradition of accepting only knights into tourneys, though few squires would have a suit of tourney plate, let alone a destrier of sufficient power to stand against the cream of the Reach’s horseflesh. It was also not lost on him that the loosening of the rules had enabled his own participation.

Heralds in Hightower livery trumpeted for silence, rapidly broken by the murmurings and quiet exclamations of the crowd as an elderly figure came forwards from the rear of the central stand.

Lord Hightower smiled at the citizens he hadn’t descended amongst in a decade.

‘Welcome!’ He began, in an impressively strong voice. ‘I am delighted to see that so many distinguished guests and competitors have come to Oldtown and our tourney. I will not be jousting myself.’ Those near enough to hear his words chuckled indulgently. ‘But I offer my own good luck to all those competing. So, let the jousting commence!’ He finished, smiling at the crowd’s cheers.

It was a further quarter of an hour before the assembled competitors had dispersed, the majority returning to their tents until their joust was called.

-

‘Nephew!’

Anaeryn grinned back dutifully.

‘Uncle! Here to wish me good fortune?’

‘Of course.’ He frowned. ‘You appear to have a different mount?’

Anaeryn wondered whether his uncle knew anything about horses.

‘Yes. This is Bukephalus, my tourney steed. Aella is trained for battle rather than the lists. At any rate, she wouldn’t be strong enough to carry both me and herself all day in tourney weight armour.’

Ser Garth nodded before pausing.

‘There’s a difference between warhorses and tourney horses?’

‘In Dorne. You men of the Reach don’t seem to draw a distinction.’

Ser Garth grinned easily.

‘You’re one of us now.’

‘Thank you. I’m ready, Mr Fowler?’

The boy stepped back from tightening a strap on Bukephalus’ saddle.

‘You are, my lord.’

Anaeryn nodded and mounted, waiting for the trumpets to announce his match before grasping the offered lance.

-

Anara jumped up from her seat and began to cheer wildly when she saw her cousin trot out onto the tilt. Myrellie, Ser Garth’s youngest daughter, remained on her plump cushion and looked confused.

‘Anaeryn!’ Anara shouted, pointing.

She watched smugly as her friend’s eyes widened as they followed her finger.

Anaeryn looked like one of the knights from the stories, Anara decided, sat astride Bukephalus’ proud form. The stallion’s barding, formed from ten thousand gleaming scales of ebony steel, splintered the sunlight as he moved. Her cousin’s armour was also black as night, hammered to his lean form and shining like freshly mined dragonglass. Even the twelve foot lance held upright in his grasp had been painted with pitch. The only colour displayed by either man or horse was spilt onto the face of the Lord of Starfall’s shield, where a falling star and sword were picked out in silver leaf upon a purple field. Well, that and the pale blue handkerchief she could see knotted around the wrist of the hand that held the lance. She’d giggled and run for her favourite when Anaeryn had knelt before her and asked solemnly for her favour.

His opponent didn’t look nearly so splendid. His armour gleamed with oil but was dull from use. Anara wrinkled her nose when she spotted what looked like a large, faded bloodstain on his mount’s plain cloth skirt.

-

Bukephalus was well trained. He stood calm and still at his end of the tilt, the slight flaring of his nostrils the only betrayal of excitement.

The hedge knight sat on his own horse two hundred yards away, clad in armour of good quality but poor fit and bearing a dark blue shield bereft of sigil.

The handkerchief fluttered from the adjudicator’s hand.

On one side of the field the response was mechanical. Bukephalus, silently and without prompting, launched himself forwards, accelerating rapidly into a brisk and even canter.

The hedge knight kicked spurs into his mount’s flanks a moment after Bukephalus started moving.Managing his horse, he leaned forward and lowered his lance fractionally too late. His shield dipped and his mount’s gait changed marginally in response to the shifting rider.

They were too slow to make the necessary corrections.

Anaeryn leant forward and lowered his lance as soon as Bukephalus kicked forward. Man and horse fell into the position and rhythm held and practised a thousand times. Bukephalus kept step and Anaeryn registered and instinctively responded to the momentarily lowered shield of his opponent.

The hedge knight spun halfway round, twisting in midair in response to the heavy lance’s collision with his unprotected shoulder before landing, clanking, in a spray of sand.

-

Two further opponents were dispatched with equal facility, to an enthusiastic response from the crowd.

Anaeryn’s fourth, a skilled and relatively well mounted knight from the Vale with five mountain peaks on an azure field on his shield, managed to remain seated after the first pass as both riders exchanged solid blows.

Bukephalus responded eagerly to Anaeryn’s urging on the next pass, reaching a full gallop before the clash. The knight was unprepared for the change of pace and, although he managed to glance his lance on Anaeryn’s shield, was flung from his saddle by the momentum that struck his own and that he found himself unable to absorb.

-

The lists shortened steadily, so that by the time the light became too weak to strike an opponent by the number of competitors had fallen from a thousand to fewer than two hundred.

Three men had died, along with six horses. Fourteen had been disqualified for cheating.

None of those facts quelled the festivities.

Lord Leyton had had an enormous, open-sided pavilion constructed in the space occupied by two temporarily disassembled tiltyards. Food was piled temptingly on platters that stretched the length of the trestle tables that spanned the tent.

A drunk and beaming Aurane staggered through the crowd, arms hung around Anaeryn and Gerold’s necks.

Anaeryn smiled indulgently and offered a few modest qualifications as Aurane introduced him and Gerold to everyone he met as ‘his champions’. Gerold, who had danced through the early rounds of the tourney as easily as Anaeryn, looked increasingly annoyed.

‘My congratulations!’ Lord Leyton exclaimed as he made his way though the assembly, goblet held in one hand and fourth wife in the other. ‘An excellent performance from both of you boys.’

‘Thank you, Lord Leyton.’ Anaeryn replied as Gerold inclined his head. Aurane grinned inanely before winking at the wife, a pale, pretty girl who was closer to his own age than her husband’s.

-

Ser Loras Tyrell sat in the stands next to his sister. His jousts for the second day had run their course and he had claimed his place amongst the forty eight available in the quarter finals.

‘My favour seems to be bringing you luck.’ Margaery murmured, leaning in in a cloud of summer jasmine.

‘Makes sense.’ Loras agreed, lips twitching. ‘Your old handkerchief giving me more success than father’s money and six years of training.’

She ignored his remark, although her ladies tittered.

‘I believe it’s your friend next.’ She commented.

Loras raised an eyebrow.

‘My friend?’

Margaery returned his gaze with an irritatingly knowing expression.

‘Lord Dayne.’

Loras tried to keep his expression neutral as Margaery’s attendants giggled and started muttering to one another.

‘It was you who seemed to be monopolising him at the feast.’ He commented, unable to keep the note of jealousy from his voice.

Margaery smiled at him.

‘I had his words, you his attention.’ She said softly, before turning her eyes back to the tilt. ‘Here they are.’

It was the last joust of the day.

Lord Yohn Royce rode out onto the grounds first, astride a large warhorse whose glossy coat matched the gleaming bronze of his purportedly ancient rune engraved armour.

‘Who’ll win?’ Margaery asked curiously.

Loras watched Lord Royce trot around the stands receiving the crowd’s acclaim.

‘Lord Yohn is very good. Not so skilled as his son, Ser Robar, but he must have been competing for years before I was even born, and is still winning tourneys. Lord Dayne? I haven't seen him joust.’

‘So my money on Lord Yohn?’ Margaery asked curiously.

Loras turned to ask her why she was betting, but his attention was dragged back to the arena.

Loras raised an eyebrow as Lord Dayne trotted past.

‘He sits well.’ He noted.

‘He looks very pretty, too.’ Margaery added, although both competitors were wearing helmets.

Loras rolled his eyes and fought to contain his blush.

They watched the first pass, the thunder of the horses’ hooves shaking the wooden frame of the stands beneath them.

‘Anaeryn will win.’ Loras told his sister absently, eyes focused on the two riders and failing to notice her eyebrow lift at his slip.

‘But they’re both still in the saddle, how can you tell?’ She objected.

They watched the second clash of the man in black and the man in bronze.

‘See,’ Loras said, indicating, ‘Lord Yohn is an expert jouster, but Lord Dayne looks to have been born in the saddle. His horse is stronger and better trained; he doesn’t even need to guide him. Lord Royce aims his lance too early. He points it well, and can hold it dead on target, but is inflexible in movement. Lord Dayne is constantly adjusting the point of his, placing it exactly where he means it to be and where his opponent is weakest. Yohn faltered on that pass, he won’t last the next.’

He didn’t. Lord Royce made a valiant attempt to hold his saddle, but slightly lost control of his mount and dropped clumsily sideways. He landed well, though, rolling to reduce the impact in a movement that demonstrated the experience of a hundred falls.


	4. Chapter 4

The final day of the jousts dawned as bright and clear as every other had been, the sun hot enough to drench an armoured man with sweat even before his narrow-slitted helm locked into place. The forty eight remaining competitors were all skilled and well mounted, most the victors of at least several minor tourneys.

-

‘Your father will be proud.’

Anaeryn suspected that the furious blush on Brienne’s broad face was due more to his embrace than his words.

‘I bow to you, my lady.’

Anaeryn watched with amusement as Ser Garth did just that. His adopted uncle’s cheek was sporting a nasty cut, but he seemed otherwise unharmed by his ignominiously early exit from the melee Brienne had won.

Despite the extensive training of his aunt, Brienne still seemed unsure how to respond to the situation as she passed the heavy mace that she had used to batter her way to victory awkwardly between her hands.

‘I’m sure Ser Oletus will also be delighted.’ Anaeryn added, coming to her rescue.

She smiled at him gratefully, this compliment apparently having more of the desired effect.

-

Anaeryn sat between Aurane and Ser Garth later that afternoon to watch the last few jousts before his own.

‘Who will win?’ Aurane asked.

‘Ser Loras.’ Anaeryn answered immediately. ‘At least, if what they say about him is true. Gerold is too impatient and too easily distracted. He tends to lose to those, even if they’re less skilled than him, who can hold their concentration and joust strategically.’

‘And Ser Loras is the pride of Highgarden.’ Ser Garth interjected. ‘You know, the king knighted him at fourteen namedays when he dismounted three members of the Kingsguard in a single afternoon.’

‘Starfall talked of little else for days when we heard the news.’ Anaeryn replied, recalling his own envy.

Aurane grinned at him.

‘Well, mayhaps if you win then Lord Leyton will knight you today.’ He suggested brightly.

‘I don’t exactly need to be knighted.’ Anaeryn told him, ‘Besides, it’s not as if I’ve given myself the opportunity. I had no intention of ever being a squire.’

Aurane laughed merrily, apparently not suffering overmuch from another evening of drinking the previous night.

They were distracted as the joust’s competitors came onto the grounds from either end and began trotting around the stands.

Both competitors held their helms under one arm. Ser Loras grinned at the crowd, throwing flowers from a basket strapped to his saddle. Gerold was as inscrutable as ever, sitting astride his dark brown mare and waving mechanically.

Eventually the two lined up.

The first pass was inconclusive, with both lances striking their opponent’s shield true but the riders remaining firmly in the saddle.

Anaeryn nodded.

‘Ser Loras will win.’

Two further passes proved equally undramatic.

Anaeryn sighed slightly on the fourth, before turning his attention to Aurane.

‘Gerold has lost his focus. He leaned too far forwards on that last pass. He’s getting frustrated, and Ser Loras is much too good to be dismounted by Gerold’s eagerness.’

The fifth clash of lances proved decisive. Gerold had leant in again, part raising himself from his saddle. In doing so he lost focus on his shield.

Ser Loras increased the angle of his own to deflect his opponent’s blow, whilst striking the star over mountain emblazoned on the centre of Gerold’s dead on.

Anaeryn and Aurane watched as their friend tumbled into the sand.

-

Three pairings of increasing difficulty later and Ser Loras claimed his spot in the final.

Half an hour later, Anaeryn followed.

-

‘Who will win?’ Aurane asked him for what must have been the tenth time that day, though now with a slight grin.

‘I don’t know.’ Anaeryn answered honestly, strapping on gleaming black gauntlets for the final time.

Aurane looked slightly surprised before pouting. ‘You’ve been right every time so far. You’ve won me nearly three hundred dragons.’

‘Im glad. But I suggest you hold onto your winnings for this match. Ser Loras is just as good as I am.’

Gerold whistled sardonically as he stepped into the half light of the tent.

‘At least I can be glad to have lost to someone who you rate so highly.’ He acknowledged sourly.

‘Well, you managed to dismount Perros in the third round.’ Anaeryn consoled. ‘But I keep telling you that you let your temper get the best of you.’

Gerold shrugged.

‘It wouldn’t have made a difference; Ser Loras is more skilled than I. Anyway,’ he came over to Anaeryn and clapped him on the back, ‘good luck.’

-

Anaeryn sat atop Bukephalus, who stood as calmly as ever, and stared down the tilt towards his opponent. Ser Loras was upon his own moon-pale mount, and his silvered armour gleamed with eye watering brilliance in the mid afternoon sun. It would give him a slight advantage when he was riding into its rays, but that was thankfully negated on the passes where Anaeryn would be.

The handkerchief dropped.

The jousters clashed in the dead centre of the field, where both had previously been dismounting opponents well into their own halves thanks to faster horses and quicker reactions. Both lances struck true, but were deflected with a minimum of impact by carefully angled shields.

Half an hour passed and saw a further dozen lances shattered on both sides with little to show save tired horses and gently boiled riders.

The adjudicator called a pause in proceedings.

Anaeryn dismounted and gave Bukephalus a carefully judged measure of water; enough to quench his thirst but not sufficient to bloat and slow him down.

‘You seem to have met your match.’ Gerold commented as he brought Anaeryn a cup of water for himself, which he drained in one long swallow.

‘Apparently.’ Anaeryn agreed. ‘I can’t feel any weaknesses on his part, and I don’t think I’ve opened any myself.’

Gerold nodded.

‘I couldn't see any. You both joust and ride similarly. You’re both the same age and probably similar weights. I think Bukephalus is marginally more powerful than his mare, but her form suggests she’ll have slightly greater endurance.’

Anaeryn nodded.

‘Much the same as my assessment.’ He paused. ‘Well, perhaps I’ll have to break my own advice and adopt your strategy.’

Gerold looked faintly surprised. ‘What strategy would that be?’

Anaeryn grinned at him.

‘Watch, and see someone employ it properly.’

Gerold huffed, but Anaeryn caught a fleeting smile as he wandered off.

-

The fourteenth pass was more dramatic than any prior to the pause in proceedings.

Anaeryn leant down to stroke Bukephalus’ neck as they lined up.

‘Don’t worry, old friend, just try to run steady.’ He muttered softly before straightening.

The handkerchief dropped.

The two horses began their automatic and inexorable charge.

Loras sat exactly as he had for the preceding thirteen bouts; impeccably balanced in the saddle, lance poised, tip tracking the movement of Anaeryn’s shield, his own braced at the optimum angle.

With thirty yards to run before the collision, Anaeryn moved.

He rose and leaned forwards, shifting weight into his stirrups and gripping the saddle firmly between his knees and lower thighs.

Thankfully, Bukephalus seemed unperturbed.

The impact fell.

Both lances shattered on shields. Anaeryn, managing to maintain his concentration and balance more effectively than Gerold had, felt the energy of the impact transfer through his armoured frame and held firm.

Loras, having managed to instinctively to adjust the position of his lance and shield in response to his opponent, was unable to anticipate the increased violence of the received strike, with the momentum of not merely his opponent but much of that of his horse transferred into the blow. He did not, however, fall.

He reeled drunkenly in the saddle for a moment before regaining his balance, gesturing another lance forwards.

Anaeryn cursed softly at the sight of his opponent still mounted.

On the next pass Loras matched him.

They both rose from their saddles in the same moment, leaning in and locking the joints in their armour in order to be able to give and absorb the maximum impact.

They both wobbled as they received their opponent’s carefully placed blow, but recovered smoothly.

And that was how the afternoon progressed.

Eventually, with both riders starting to sag, exhausted and bruised, in their saddles and the two horses bathed in sweat and beginning to stagger in their gait, the trumpets blew.

-

‘Not since the days of Jaehaerys I have the Seven Kingdoms seen such a display!’ Lord Leyton declared to the crowd. ‘I consider the match a draw, and a great honour to have witnessed!’

The crowd roared its approval as an attendant brought forward a pair of oak leaf wreaths sat on a velvet cushion and followed Lord Leyton out onto the sand. Anaeryn couldn’t help but wonder where they had managed to find a second circlet at such short notice.

He and Loras dismounted and inclined their heads respectfully as they were crowned and presented with substantial ironbound boxes of gold.

The Lord of the Hightower held up a hand for silence.

‘I have another duty.’ He paused, smiling around at his audience as a second servant brought his sword.

‘By the power vested in me by the Faith of Seven and in the light and strength of the Warrior, I, Leyton Hightower, Lord Hightower of Oldtown, Beacon of the South, Lord of the Port and Defender of the Faith, declare Anaeryn Dayne, Lord Dayne of Starfall, to be a knight of the Seven Kingdoms. I charge you to uphold the codes and practises of the brotherhood as laid down in the Fourteen Articles, to remain stalwart in the face of adversity, charitable to those in need, and faithful under trial of doubt from this day unto your last.’

The crowd cheered wildly as he finished, drowning out Anaeryn’s uttering of the ritual response.

Lord Hightower stood, smiling gently, until silence returned.

‘Furthermore, I have a proclamation to make before all of you today. As of this moment, I, Leyton Hightower, formally adopt my grandson into House Hightower and declare him to be my heir.’

The simple formula of his words did not seem to be helping their cognition in the minds of the crowd. A couple of seconds of stunned silence were followed by an outbreak of exclamations as the smallfolk began to realise who he was referring to.

The old lord had a flair for theatrics, Anaeryn was forced to admit, although he’d had no way of knowing that his new heir would make it to the end of the jousts. Making the announcement in such a public way would fix it in the minds of the people and, he prayed, tie his name as Lord Leyton’s successor to the fickle popularity engendered by his shared victory.

‘Congratulations, my lord.’ A beaming Ser Loras told him, although his eyes were slightly narrowed. ‘I’m sure my father will be delighted to meet you.’

Anaeryn inclined his head respectfully, ‘And I him.’

-

The scent of incense clung heavily to the still air that supported it, surrounding him, filling his lungs and making him oddly drowsy.

He supposed that wasn’t such a surprise, though; he was exhausted. Lord Hightower had insisted upon him receiving the fealty of his bannermen. Their acceptance of his new status. He’d noted their disgruntled looks as they’d paraded before him. Costayne and Mullendore, Beesbury and Cuy and Bulwer, Redruth and Bandallon. That, more than anything, had made him realise the scale of the long-dormant strength of House Hightower; a steady procession of powerful men with ancient names bowing their heads to him, all underneath Lord Leyton’s beady gaze. Most had made little effort to conceal their upset at the altered succession. Ser Baelor was popular. More importantly, he was a Reachman, and not an unknown child from Dorne. Those who’d been more successfulin masking their expressions had been the ones to interest him. He needed intelligent men as well as swords, followers who were adaptable and dynamic rather than blinded by prejudice and stymied by sudden changes of circumstance.

He’d been unable to repress a grin when Lord Redruth, a lean and hungry looking man, had cornered him immediately after the gathering in order to press the suit of his youngest daughter.

‘As fair as any in the Reach.’ He had declared confidently, having broached the subject with little in the way of subtlety. ‘Mayhaps a year older than yourself and a maiden, with wide hips and a family history that would promise you many fine children.’

If he’d hoped to unsettle Anaeryn with his talk of infant-bearing hips then he’d been disappointed. Aunt Allyria had been sure to explain female anatomy to him in the least veiled of terms when she’d decided it necessary. The memory of the conversation could still cause embarrassment, discussion of its particulars could not.

He’d thanked the man politely, impressed by his brazen approach, and promised to make a visit to Rutherfall, in the foothills of the Red Mountains, at his earliest convenience.

The tourney celebrations had raged long into the night afterwards, a haze of drinking in which Anaeryn’s newly sworn vows prevented him partaking.

The celebrations outside the city had given way to somnolence in the early hours. He’d left the tourney grounds, as required, before the sun had set. And now he knelt, in anticipation of the dawn, on the cold granite floor of the vast Starry Sept, naked save for a snow-white shirt and pair of breeches.

The Archsepton of Oldtown had led him through the ceremonies required to confirm his knighthood. The ancient and kindly man, whose outward appearance alone had surely raised him halfway to sainthood, anointed him with the seven oils before the statues of the gods and murmured soft prayers and blessings with a quiet dignity.

Anaeryn eyed the finely carved features of the Warrior, whose immense statue stood before him, unable to stop a stirring of somewhat irreligious admiration.

_Not so handsome as Loras_, he couldn’t help but think.

He was pulled from further contemplation by the sudden sliver of light gleaming in the still water of the shallow marble pool that lay at the Warrior’s feet.

_And now my vigil is over_. He thought flippantly. _At least I can tell Ferryon he’s finally a real squire._

_-_

‘My lord, my lord.’

Anaeryn stirred, before instinctively launching himself at the shadow gripping his shoulder.

He sat up, eyes slowly adjusting to see by moonlight penetrating the tent’s entrance.

‘I’m sorry, Ferryon.’ He apologised, finding both wakefulness and the outline of his squire slowly getting up from the floor.

‘No, my lord. I should be sorry for attempting to wake you like that.’ Ferryon replied nervously, finally finding his feet.

‘Not at all.’ Anaeryn gestured impatiently for him to continue as he sat up, willing the candles that scattered the pavilion into life.

‘Lord Hightower would like to speak to you, my lord.’ His squire said, staring at the display of the magic.

‘In the middle of the night?’ He asked curiously, even as he stood and went to one of the chests that lined the wall to find a pair of breeches.

‘I was told it was an emergency, my lord.’

‘But that’s all you know?’ Anaeryn asked, glancing back towards his squire to find the boy blushing and looking away from his nakedness.

‘Yes, my lord.’

Anaeryn nodded internally as he pulled a fine linen shirt over his head.

‘Pass me the doublet that pairs these breeches.’ He instructed his squire, pleased to see Ferryon already holding it out to him when he turned back round. ‘Would you go and wake Gerold, please? Bring him to me.’

His squire nodded nervously.

Anaeryn sat at his desk and penned a quick note to the captain of his guards.

‘Would you take this to Ser Joe?’ He asked one of the men standing to attention outside his tent, watching with satisfaction as the man nodded immediately before setting off at the brisk walk his armour made it difficult to exceed.

‘What the fuck is going on?’

Anaeryn raised an amused eyebrow at his friend as Gerold came into the tent wearing a thunderous expression and few clothes.

‘Lord Leyton would like to meet with me, I want you to come too.’

Gerold’s gaze sharpened with a flicker of interest as he snatched the shirt Ferryon had followed him into the tent clutching.

-

The atmosphere surrounding the Hightower was tense. The space around the main entrance was ablaze with torchlight and filled with hurrying figures. A pair of grooms took the reins of Anaeryn and Gerold’s horses as soon as they’d clattered up the steps.

‘This way, my lords.’ A servant said, guiding them through the cavernous entryway.

-

‘Ah, welcome. Anaeryn.’Lord Leyton greeted him, sparing a brief nod for Gerold before gesturing the pair of them to seats at the long, gleaming table that stood in the centre of the large room.

Near a score of men sat round it. Anaeryn recognised most of them as senior members of Lord Leyton’s household, or as the lords sworn to him, and to whom he’d been introduced the previous afternoon. Paxter Redwyne, a squat figure with thinning red hair, paced anxiously in front of a hearth being laid by a pair of servants. His twin sons sat at the table, both apparently upset.

‘Lord Dayne.’ Came a smooth voice from behind him.

He turned to find Ser Loras standing there, looking bright-eyed and alert rather than dragged from sleep, fully dressed in a dark green velvet doublet and with a sword hanging from the soft leather belt that clasped his slim waist.

‘Ser Loras. I assume that you have no more idea what’s going on than I do?’

The Tyrell smiled easily and shrugged.

‘Unfortunately not. I was hoping you’d be able to inform me on that score.’ Ser Loras paused to glance round the table’s occupants. ‘Judging by our audience, I’m here as a representative of my father.’

‘Indeed you are, Ser Loras. I’ve given word for a raven to be sent to Highgarden with the news I’ve received, but your presence is desired in your father’s stead for the time being.’ Lord Leyton interjected

The subject of his address inclined his head and took a seat next to Anaeryn.

‘Now that Ser Loras has arrived, I believe we’re all here.’ He stopped to take a deep breath, looking both sad and old in the soft candlelight. ‘I have received word that the Arbor has been attacked in force by the Ironborn. Lord Paxter’s fleet has been burned at anchor and Ryamsport sacked.’

A series of shocked and enraged exclamations came from those around the table. _Well, that explains the Redwynes’ expressions, _Anaeryn thought.

‘Gentlemen.’ Lord Leyton continued firmly, ‘We must strategise our response.’

‘A raid, my lord?’ Lord Costayne, a young, heavyset man whose keep lay on the southern coast of the Whispering Sound, asked. ‘Surely Lord Redwyne’s defences…’ here he paused for a moment, glancing at the man he’d named, ‘were more than adequate to defend the island.’

Leyton Hightower didn’t respond, also looking to Paxter Redwyne.

The man in question paced for a little longer, looking at the floor, before he raised his head and spoke through gritted teeth.

‘The defences at Ryamsport were excellent.’ He glared at Tommen Costayne, whose pudgy face blanched. ‘This was not some mere raid.’ He continued with a growl. ‘Not a couple of longships with captains who don’t know how dear the iron price will cost them. This was the Iron Fleet.’

The room sat in silence, absorbing the news.

‘The Iron Fleet only sails on the orders of Lord Greyjoy…’ Lord Costayne began hesitantly, though Anaeryn found himself admiring the man’s persistence.

‘Yes.’ Lord Redwyne bit out.

Lord Hightower eyed him carefully before returning his attention to the assembly.

‘The Iron Fleet.’ He confirmed heavily. ‘The message we received earlier tonight was a little confused, but claims there to have been more than a hundred ships involved in the attack.’

Appalled muttering broke out as those around the table remembered the last Greyjoy Rebellion. In truth, nine years ago Lord Balon had stood little chance against the might of the Iron Throne. The Royal Fleet had still been possessed of most of the strength it had gathered under the Targaryens. When combined with Lord Redwyne’s dromonds they had outnumbered the Ironborn fleet twofold. Still, it had been hard-fought, and now it seemed that at least half the naval strength the crown could call upon had been destroyed without ever leaving harbour.

‘Where did the Ironborn go, my lord?’ Lord Bulwer asked. He was a stout man of middling years who looked near as strong as the bull whose skull sat upon his sigil. Anaeryn knew that his castle and lands lay across the Sound from Lord Costayne’s, against the coast and just as vulnerable.

‘They headed north.’ Lord Leyton replied. ‘At least, according to the raven that arrived tonight. They spent a day and a night ravaging the Arbor before setting sail. All of the ravens in Ryamsport were killed and it took another day to have one sent from Vinetown.’

‘Back to their islands.’ Tommen Costayne said, his relief unfortunately apparent.

‘Or the Shields. Bandallon. Old Oak. Crakehall, even Lannisport.’ Ser Loras said, eyes glittering dangerously as he stared hard at a man ten years his senior.

Lord Costayne almost flinched, and went quiet as a murmur of acknowledgement went round the table in response to Ser Loras’ words.

‘There is no naval force remaining on the western or southern seaboards capable of facing the Ironborn.’ Paxter Redwyne declared solemnly.

His words silenced the room for a few long moments before everyone began to speak at once.

‘Lord Stannis has…’

‘Seaguard will be…’

‘My keep is…’

‘What does our lord’s young heir plan to do about the threat?’

The question, softly spoken, cut off the clamour like the wire of a garrotte.

Anaeryn stared into eyes as green as grass, and as cold as the first frost of winter on its blades.

‘What do I plan to do, Ser Moryn?’ He asked calmly, hiding his confusion.

Ser Moryn Tyrell was the uncle of Mace Tyrell and the autumn red of his hair was drifting towards its final season. He had commanded Oldtown’s city watch for long years, and established a reputation for brutal efficiency outweighed only by the notoriety of his corruption.

‘Lord Paxter declares there to be no ships to hand closer than the black beaches of Dragonstone.’ He continued, quiet voice pouring slowly into the silence. ‘And yet I have heard some tell of a Dornishman who has been hard at work with his carpentry.’

The edge of mockery in his words was soft and dangerous. Anaeryn felt those assembled around the table following the veiled confrontation closely.

‘Would that Dornishman you speak of be myself, perchance?’ Anaeryn asked lightly, attempting to tread carefully.

Ser Moryn allowed the silence to stretch as he engaged in a mummer’s farce of slow recollection.

‘Why, yes.’ He declared eventually. ‘I do believe that men by the docks speak of a great fleet of strange ships commanded by the Lord of Starfall.’

Every eye in the room was now fixed upon him.

‘Consorting with men by the docks will give you more serious problems than inaccurate information, Ser Moryn.’ Anaeryn said drily. He noted a couple of faces smirk slightly, but he realised that the commander had backed him into a corner.

‘I have ships.’ He began cautiously. ‘Just as Lord Leyton has ships, as the lords of the Shields have ships, as the Lannisters and the Mallisters each have their own fleets.’

‘How many?’ Ser Moryn leant in, expression hard.

Anaeryn silently cursed the man. The situation was impossible; had he remained merely Lord of Starfall then he would not even have been sat at this table. There would have been no expectation from the Reach that he reveal his strength, that he commit himself. But he had signed the parchment with its great grey wax seal, and now Lord Leyton and his bannermen had a legitimate claim upon him.

‘Several score.’ He admitted, trying to tread the fine line of acceptable imprecision. ‘Although I know not how many are within reach of our present situation.’

He could feel the stances of a few of the men around him soften when he grouped himself with them, but waited nervously to see how far Ser Moryn was prepared to press his commitment.

‘I understand, my lord.’ The knight said, with a smile that failed to reach his eyes. ‘But surely they would be of most use in harbour here, ranged alongside Lord Hightowers dromonds, an implacable barrier to the Greyjoys’ ambitions?’

_He speaks well_, Anaeryn was forced to admit, feeling the men around him sway with the force of Ser Moryn’s words. He knew instinctively that mentioning Starfall was what Ser Moryn desired of him; the older man would then pour scorn upon the idea that the Ironborn would have any interest in a barren harbour in Dorne when the wealthiest city in Westeros lay ripe for the plunder. A city that would belong to him.

‘You are right, of course, Ser Moryn.’ He agreed graciously, gratified to see a flicker of surprise cross the older man’s face. ‘The defence of Oldtown, and of the castles upon the Sound,’ here he smiled and inclined his head towards Lord Bulwer and Lord Costayne, ‘that stand guard over the approaches, must be our paramount concern.’ He paused, weighing his next words for a moment. ‘And I have no fear for Starfall when its own city watch stand ready and able to defend its walls.’

He barely restrained his grin when Ser Moryn’s jaw clenched at the jab and Lord Bulwer chuckled openly.

‘Indeed,’ he continued, giving the man no time to respond, ‘I will dispatch orders as soon as this council is over, summoning every vessel within reach to the city.’

Ser Moryn’s silence would have been reward enough, but Lord Leyton smiled and looked around at his bannermen.

‘Already my newly minted heir pledges his sails to Oldtown’s defence.’ The old man declared with evident satisfaction. ‘Balon Greyjoy shall not find us so ill-prepared as he did our friends in the Arbor.’ He seemed unmoved by Lord Paxter’s glare at his words.

‘Will your lordship allow me to expand the city watch?’ Ser Moryn asked, in what Anaeryn felt was a slightly clumsy attempt to defend himself from his implied accusation.

‘I will. You are permitted to recruit and train a further two thousand guardsmen, to bring the Watch’s numbers up to a total of five thousand. Admiral Hess, equally, you are to ensure that our fleet is fully manned and stands read to defend the Sound night and day.’

A lean and weathered man who looked to be only a few years younger than his master nodded his assent.

‘Lord Stannis is on the road to King’s Landing.’ Lord Leyton continued. ‘But it will be days before he is made aware of the situation, and a goodly number of weeks before he is able to reach the Royal Fleet at Dragonstone.’

‘So it’s months we’ll have to hold out.’ Lord Bulwer grumbled. ‘Months when the Ironborn can do as they bloody well please.’

‘Unless you plan to offer battle to the Ironborn yourself, Lord Jon, then that is exactly what we shall do. I have ordered that birds be sent to King’s Landing and to Winterfell, but the King is like to still be many leagues from his destination. Riders have been dispatched to find Lord Stannis on the road, and he will no doubt make all haste to Dragonstone in order to take up his command. Until such time as he sails to once more quell the Greyjoys, we must defend ourselves from the wolves.’

‘I must return to my lands.’ Lord Redwyne burst out suddenly, halting his pacing. ‘My fleet is at the bottom of the harbour in Ryamsport. I daren’t think what has happened to my wife and daughters.’

Anaeryn looked at the man with considerable sympathy. He was holding himself together impressively, but his hands were trembling violently. He was known to love his family deeply, and dealing with the prospect of them in Ironborn hands was clearly agonising for him.

Lord Leyton frowned.

‘Of course. And we must discuss what aid we can provide. The Arbor is fertile and as far as we’re aware it’s only Ryamsport that has been sacked. Your smallfolk should have plenty of food, at least.’ He paused to drag a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. ‘The raven sent from Vinetown provided little in the way of detail. If we knew more then I would know what to send.’

Anaeryn leant in, quickly coming to a decision.

‘I have half a dozen sword ships in harbour here. They’ll be able to reach the Arbor in two days if we sail with the next tide; half the time it would take any of your vessels, Lord Redwyne. For a short journey on these seas they should be able to transport two hundred men as well as their crews, our entourages, and double supplies.’

Lord Leyton looked at him for a long moment before nodding.

‘I can provide couple of hundred men to help rebuild. Temor,’ he continued, looking at the man who ran his household, ‘see how many stonemasons and carpenters you can pull together in the next few hours. I’d offer naval supplies, but I’m unwilling to empty my stores with the Ironborn threat.’

Paxter Redwyne nodded sadly.

‘It will be months before I have any new hulls ready to launch.’ He sighed. ‘But the main shipyards are in Vinetown, so I should have enough skilled labour and seasoned timber to make a start.’

‘I think it makes sense for us to leave as soon as possible.’

‘The next tide.’ Paxter Redwyne agreed immediately.

Lord Leyton nodded.

‘We’re in accord then, gentlemen. Ser Loras, if you would like to send your own message to your father then I will make a bird available. Admiral Hess, have our galleys manned and in position across the Sound.’

Loras murmured his thanks as the Admiral nodded and left the room.

‘I would advise you to at least send riders back to your keeps to alert your stewards and castellans, my lords.’ Lord Leyton told his bannermen, surveying the assembled faces. ‘If that is all, however, then you’re dismissed. Anaeryn, would you stay for a moment?’

He inclined his head and remained seated as the room emptied.

‘I will gather my household, my lord. My thanks for taking us home.’ Paxter Redwyne said, ushering his two distraught sons from the room.

‘I apologise for Ser Moryn.’

‘No apology is needed,’ Anaeryn told him. ‘I’m sure he desires only to protect the city he has adopted, and if I commit forces to Oldtown’s defence then it will help to reduce any friction between myself and your lords bannermen.’

‘I am grateful.’ Lord Leyton told him with an odd smile. ‘I know you must feel Starfall is vulnerable, but I would imagine that Oldtown will be considered the greater prize by the Ironborn.’

‘No doubt.’ Anaeryn agreed, bowing his head. ‘I will remain in the city, if it pleases you, after I have returned from the Arbor.’

‘Of course. You must command your own vessels, and your staying will allow you to learn about the running of the city you will one day rule.’

Anaeryn clasped his adopted grandfather’s hands for a moment before taking his leave.

He found a reception committee waiting for him in the antechamber. Gerold leant casually in a shadowed alcove, and Ferryon hovered nearby.But his attention was drawn inexorably towards Ser Loras, standing shining in the lamplight with his own squire at his side.

The two of them looked up from their conversation as Anaeryn came in and he found his eyes held by a warm golden gaze.

‘We were waiting for you.’ Ser Loras greeted him, grinning.

‘I can see that.’ Anaeryn responded, glancing curiously at the squire for a moment before returning to his admiration of Loras.

Loras caught the look.

‘My squire, Thaddeus Rowan.’

Anaeryn couldn’t help the sudden stirring of jealousy he felt as he was forced to smile and acknowledge the boy’s greeting. He was perhaps two years younger than himself, and very handsome, with gleaming auburn hair and fine dark eyes.

‘I want to come with you. To the Arbor.’

Anaeryn’s attention jerked back to Ser Loras, surprised.

‘Of course, you’re very welcome, although your quarters are likely to be more confined than you’re used to.’ Anaeryn said, immediately trying to work out how he could situate Loras in closest proximity to himself.

‘Living arrangements do not concern me. I want to witness the destruction the Ironborn have wrought. A Tyrell should be there, if only to offer his sympathy to the survivors and his strength to the rebuilding efforts.’

Anaeryn didn’t know whether to be amused by his arrogance or touched by his concern.

‘I’m sure Lord Redwyne’s smallfolk will be delighted to see you.’ He replied ironically. ‘You should gather your things quickly, Ser Loras; the tide will begin to turn an hour before sunrise.’

Ser Loras grinned at him and nodded, striding off with his squire in tow.


	5. Chapter 5

Anaeryn, Gerold and Ferryon arrived back at the ring of Dayne tents to find the entire area swarming with activity, dozens of torches guttering in their stands and casting pools of grimy orange light.

‘My lord!’ Brienne exclaimed loudly, her relief painfully apparent.

‘My lord.’ Ser Joe greeted him. He was fully armoured, and also looked pleased to see him. ‘We’ve been awaiting your return. I was about to send some men into the city to find you, can I ask what’s going on?’

‘You can. Do you knew whether Aurane and Perros have been woken?’

‘I believe they’re waiting in your tent, my lord.’ Ser Joe said respectfully.

They found Perros slumped in a chair, apparently still half asleep. Aurane was sprawled, shirtless and dishevelled on Anaeryn’s bed, looking mischievous as he held out a goblet to be refilled by a servant.

Anaeryn raised an eyebrow at him and waved the others to chairs.

‘The Ironborn have attacked the Arbor in force.’ He began shortly, once they’d all been offered refreshments.

Aurane jerked up into a sitting position, suddenly interested.

‘Balon Greyjoy has rebelled again?’ Ser Joe asked.

‘That seems to be the case. The entirety of Lord Redwyne’s fleet was destroyed at anchor in Ryamsport.’

The captain of his guards hissed a breath through his teeth, looking grim.

‘What do we do, my lord?’ Brienne asked, cornflower eyes wide and trusting.

Anaeryn had had time to think on the ride back from the city.

‘Gerold,’ he began, inclining his head towards his friend, ‘will ride immediately for Starfall. He knows the mountain passes and should be able to make the journey in five or six days. I have offered our ships to Lord Hightower to aid in the defence of Oldtown against a possible attack. Admiral Luthor should be in harbour. He is to make sail with all haste, and every vessel he has available, to the Whispering Sound. Starfall is unlikely to be attacked in force, I feel, but Ser Oletus is to be given charge of the castle and the town. Have him press every archer on the Torrentine into service and drill them with the Watch. The boom is to be put across the harbour every evening before dusk.’

‘Will taking the ships not leave Starfall undermanned, my lord?’ Perros asked worriedly, now wide awake.

‘It might.’ Anaeryn acknowledged. ‘Which is why I would like you to write a letter for Gerold to have sent to your mother, asking her to send reinforcements downriver.’

Lady Lyarra’s son nodded immediately.

‘House Blackmont will stand with House Dayne.’ He declared firmly.

‘You have my thanks.’ Anaeryn said, looking gratefully at his friend. ‘Ser Joe,’ he continued, ‘I am taking the ships that brought us here to the Arbor with the next tide.’

He couldn’t help but be impressed when the man’s neat features showed not even a flicker of surprise.

‘Of course, my lord, I will have the crews alerted. Are we to be taking Lord Redwyne?’

‘His Lordship intends to travel with us.’ Anaeryn said, again taken aback by the man’s prescience. ‘Leave twenty of the Guard here to protect our encampment, and detail a further twenty under the command of Ser Phaestus for Anara’s protection. She will be staying in the Hightower for the time being, with Ser Garth’s daughter.’

‘Certainly, my lord.’

-

‘May the Seven bless your voyage.’ Lord Leyton said formally, before surprising Anaeryn by drawing him into a brief embrace. It had been even more of a shock to see the man carried in a litter down to the harbour in order to see them off.

Anaeryn smiled and took his leave, before disengaging and boarding the ship.

‘It would appear we’re ready to sail, Captain Morin.’ He commented to the sturdy sailor who commanded his flagship.

‘Yes, my lord.’ He agreed. ‘The boats are waiting to take us out.’

‘Excellent. Mr Fowler, if you would instruct the other captains to pull away in series and take station astern?’

His squire hurried to do his bidding. Anaeryn noted with satisfaction that he didn’t need to consult the book he’d been ordered to memorise before opening the locker that held the signal flags. He quickly pulled out half a dozen and pulled them up a halyard attached to the mainmast so that the other ships of their flotilla could see.

‘Will you be taking us out, my lord?’ Captain Morin asked respectfully.

Anaeryn grinned.

‘I think I will.’

He stepped over to the wheel, running his hands lovingly over its smooth spokes for a moment.

‘Mr Fowler, you may tell the harbour boats to proceed.’

His squire nodded, running to the stern to call to the two boats attached to the rear of the ship with thick cables.

‘Release us from the dock.’Anaeryn ordered as he began to feel the ship moving beneath his feet, the oarsmen in the boats beginning to row and the ropes that attached them to _Fallen Star_ taking up slack.

Two crewmen hastened to follow his instruction.

Anaeryn held the wheel steady as they were pulled slowly out and into the current, steering _Fallen Star _round to face down the Sound.

‘Topsails.’ He called. ‘And reefed mainsails.’

He watched as men scrambled up the masts and out across the yards to release the canvas, which unrolled and bellied in the freshening breeze.

He had the yards angled to best advantage and waited for the water to open up a little before ordering more canvas piled on.

‘Studding sails, my lord?’ Captain Morin couldn’t help but exclaim from beside him.

‘She can take them.’ Anaeryn asserted confidently. Captain Morin was utterly dependable, but also one of his more cautious captains.

The sails piled up until there was little but gleaming white canvas to see above in the pale light of the breaking dawn.

Anaeryn laid _Fallen Star _on course, smiling as she heeled over eagerly, rigging humming gently with the strain and her twin hulls carving through the gentle swell.

‘You have the ship, Captain.’

His subordinate nodded, huffing slightly with relief as he waved a member of the crew over to take the wheel.

‘Expertly handled, my lord, if I may say so.’ He complimented in a pause, both of them watching as men rushed to follow their orders eighty feet above the deck.

Anaeryn grinned.

‘You may, but we both know you’re indulging me when any of the captains in the fleet could have done it just as well in their sleep.’

‘Well, it looked very impressive from where I was standing.’ Ser Loras interrupted, coming up to stand beside Anaeryn and saving Captain Morin from having to respond.

‘Thanks.’ Anaeryn led Loras back to the rear of the quarterdeck, watching as the wharves of Oldtown disappeared into the shallow mist and revelling in the slow movement of the deck beneath his feet.

He felt the other youth’s stare on him.

‘You love the sea.’

It wasn’t a question.

‘My aunt tells me that I was born with the sound of a waterfall echoing through the birthing chamber.’ Anaeryn replied, smiling slightly. ‘Any sailor will tell you that there is freedom at sea. That the world afloat is simpler.’

‘And you?’

‘Would agree. But, more than that, the sea is full of opportunities.’

‘Not fish?’ Loras asked mildly.

‘Those too.’ Anaeryn replied, grinning.

They were distracted from their conversation by the arrival of the Redwynes.

‘Your vessel is remarkable, Lord Dayne.’ Lord Redwyne commented with quiet enthusiasm. Both he and his sons had been relatively subdued from grief and lack of sleep, but seemed to be relaxing in some measure as they took to the water they’d spent much of their lives sailing, and headed back towards their ruined home.

Anaeryn flashed him a smile. ‘Anaeryn, please, Lord Redwyne. But thank you, _Fallen Star _is the pride of my fleet. She and her sister are the largest sword ships afloat’

The man attempted to return his expression, though it materialised as something of a grimace. ‘Paxter, then.’ He said amicably, before humming thoughtfully. ‘Yes, sword ships. A most innovative design. From the Summer Isles?’

Anaeryn nodded.

‘A variation. The natives lash fishing boats together to travel between the islands, and to provide a stable platform for nets when trawling in deep water.’ He smiled modestly. ‘I just made the idea bit bigger.’

‘I think you understate your involvement. I know from experience how much labour my shipwrights put into refining designs for existing ships, without imagining completely new ones that look like nothing else afloat.’

‘It took some considerable effort, and the experience of the woodsingers of Jhala to make possible.’

Aurane snorted.

‘He makes it sound so easy. The first few ships broke apart before they even reached the sea.’

Anaeryn grinned unrepentantly.

‘But no one died, and look where we are now.’ He said, gesturing expansively to the surrounding deck.

‘What timber is this?’ Lord Paxter asked, caressing the gleaming pale grey wood of the balustrade.

‘Silverwood. It grows on Jhala. The Summer Islanders often use it for their canoes, but the trees tend not to grow large enough for their swan ships, and it’s softer than their best hardwoods, which makes it unsuitable for their massive cargoes. However, it’s also light and very strong.’

Paxter Redwyne nodded enviously.

‘Which makes it ideal for fast ships. Any chance of getting my hands on some of your silverwood?’ He asked hopefully.

Anaeryn chuckled.

‘And give up an advantage I spent months negotiating access to? I’m afraid not. It’s the only timber we managed to find that can hold the twin hulls together when sailing at speed without the whole thing twisting itself to pieces. As it is, we have to replace timbers three times as frequently as we would on a typical dromond.’

The group was suddenly distracted by the sight of Perros Blackmont reeling into a rail, forced to grab for a nearby lanyard to maintain his balance as the ship heeled more steeply, making her way out into the larger waves and stronger winds beyond the Whispering Sound.

_Fallen Star _gathered pace eagerly, pressing forwards with the wind off her quarter as Captain Morin angled the sails to take maximum advantage.

‘How fast are we going?’ Paxter Redwyne asked, slightly incredulously. He and his sons leaned easily into the motion, well used to the tilting deck of a warship at sea.

Anaeryn shrugged, smirking slightly.

‘Fourteen or fifteen knots? For short periods under ideal conditions we can fly one of the hulls out of the water and reach seventeen or eighteen.’

Lord Redwyne looked astonished.

‘My fleetest galleys can barely manage ten whilst under both oar and sail.’ He paused. ‘Could.’

-

Their flotilla managed to dock in Ryamsport on the afternoon of the second day after leaving Oldtown.

‘Smooth crossing.’ Anaeryn commented lightly to Aurane and Loras as they entered harbour, the three of them scanning the surrounding hillsides for any indication of the Ironborn’s depredations. Lord Redwyne stood with his sons at the front of the ship, looking forwards anxiously.

The growing terraces they passed seemed unaffected; neat rows of healthily green vines curling about their stakes. The town itself was a different matter. Ryamsport was a shattered wreck sitting in the middle of its shallow bay.

‘Shit.’ Loras said succinctly as they came closer to a waterfront whose quays were little more than charred firewood.

It took a worrying length of time for the alarm to sound above the town, and they had anchored before an armed reception reached the gentle surf.

‘Well, at least they didn’t trust our banners, no matter how slow their response.’

‘There can’t be more than a hundred of them. Half of them without shields, we could break them with a single volley.’ Aurane added contemptuously.

‘Well, we're allies so there’s no need. Let’s greet them and provide whatever assistance we can to Lord Paxter. Aurane, find the healers Lord Leyton sent.’

Aurane nodded briskly in response to the suddenly serious tone.

-

‘They came at night, my lord.’ The knight began, as they started to walk away from the shore and through the ruins of the burned out town. ‘The harbour watch must have been asleep.’ He cursed, voice cracking slightly with emotion. ‘Most of the fleet was at anchor in the bay. We think they sent fireships painted with tar in with the tide and set light to them when they were too close for the fleet to escape. We have a few galleys left at Vinetown, but everything else was sunk. Most of the crews on board managed to escape to the shore. They got slaughtered when the Ironborn landed.’ He added bitterly.

‘How many ships and men lost?’ Loras asked.

Ser Rendon frowned. Lord Redwyne and his son Hobber had taken charge of the situation, whilst Horas rode for Vinetown, where they’d been told Lady Redwyne and her daughters had managed to escape to.

‘One hundred and seventy-two war galleys. Maybe five or six thousand killed, a third of them women and children.’

Their conversation paused as the numbers sank in, before Loras broke the silence.

‘The raven from Vinetown suggested that the Ironborn headed north?’

Ser Rendon nodded.

‘Going back to those godforsaken islands of theirs with their spoils, no doubt.’

‘Can you estimate their numbers?’

‘Every boat their entire fucking race can float. The Iron Fleet and the longships of a score of other lords. The bay was black with the bastards when the sun came up.’

‘They’re united, then.’ Anaeryn murmured. ‘Do you know who was in command?’ He asked intently.

‘Euron Greyjoy.’ Ser Rendon spat.

‘Euron Greyjoy?’ Loras exclaimed, incredulous.

As well he might be, Anaeryn thought; Euron Greyjoy had been in exile since shortly after the last Greyjoy Rebellion. Lord Balon Greyjoy had three younger brothers still living. Aeron, the youngest, was known as the ‘Damphair’ and lived as some sort of priest in the service of the Drowned God. Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy had commanded the Iron Fleet during the Lord Balon’s last rebellion, and had managed to destroy the Lannister fleet lying at anchor in Lannisport under the shadow of Casterly Rock itself. He was an unimaginative commander, however, and had later been lured into a trap that had resulted in the devastating Battle of Fair Isle. Victarion’s flagship had been torn in two by Lord Stannis’ massive _Fury_, in an action that had made the notoriously dour man the reluctant hero of a dozen ballads.

Euron Greyjoy was the eldest of the three, and supposedly quite unlike either of his brothers. It was he who had masterminded the Lord Captain’s early victory, and where both his brothers had been captured by the royalist forces, he alone had managed to elude all pursuit. It was whispered that even whilst Victarion sat chained in _Fury_’s hold, Euron had been fucking his brother’s wife. Lord Balon, having bent the knee to the crown once more and offered up his son as hostage, had been forced to banish Euron to prevent Victarion’s avenging the dishonour and forever after being marked a kinslayer.

Lord Balon and his vassals had settled and grumbled under the greenlander yoke and way of life, but Euron had not abandoned the old ways for even a day of his lengthy exile. Anaeryn’s ships had never had the misfortune to encounter his _Silence_, with her blood-hued hull and infamous reputation, but merchants in the ports they visited all across the known world told horrifying tales of his depredations. Anaeryn knew that just about the only thing the three warring sisters of Tyrosh, Myr and Lys agreed upon was the need to destroy the pirate who preyed upon every ship he came across, irrespective of the banner they bore. All their efforts had come to naught. Traps had been slipped, squadrons of warships lured and scattered and destroyed. People said he fought for neither wealth nor glory, that he craved nothing but destruction. And for a man with a single ship he had wrought plenty.

_Now he is in possession of hundreds._

As they reached the empty market square that sat in the centre of the town, Ser Rendon stopped and turned to face the two of them, looking oddly nervous.

‘Many of the townsfolk are whispering about sorcery.’ He said after a slight hesitation.

‘Sorcery?’ Loras repeated, sounding amused.

Ser Rendon’s soft, round face wore an uncomfortable expression.

‘They say the fleet burned with a fire that couldn’t be extinguished. They say that the Ironborn were amongst them without anyone noticing a hint of their approach. They say a storm broke upon the seas beyond the harbour from a sky clear enough to see the stars.’

Loras eyed Ser Rendon, apparently trying to decide whether the man was speaking in jest.

The man quailed under his gaze.

‘Of course, my lord, that’s just what some of the townsfolk are saying.’

-

‘What will he do now?’

There was no need to ask who Perros was referring to.

Paxter Redwyne had set up his temporary headquarters in a large tavern. The _Grape Harvester_ had managed to escape the rest of the town’s destruction solely because the Ironborn had wanted to plunder its cellars. Most of the sturdy furniture lay in splinters about the common room, but enough had been scavenged from the rest of the inn to piece together a large table and surround it with chairs.

Anaeryn looked up from his contemplation of the dark, rich stew congealing on the pewter plate in front of him, waiting for someone to speak.

‘Anything he bloody wants.’ Lord Redwyne declared bitterly, punctuating his exclamation with a sharp bite of the fresh bread that had hastily been baked for their evening meal.

Anaeryn tilted his head curiously at the man.

Lord Redwyne finished his mouthful before acknowledging the look. He was exhausted and somewhat irritable, but the news that his wife and daughters had managed to escape to Vinetown had relieved him greatly.

‘The Royal Fleet is not what it was under the Targaryens.’ He said bluntly. ‘Or even what it was during the last Greyjoy Rebellion. I do not mean to offend you, Anaeryn,’ he paused over the name, still unaccustomed to the informality, ‘but there was no naval power save my own that would have stood a chance against the Ironborn. Your ships are impressive, but too small and too few to be a threat.’

Anaeryn felt a prickle of anger at the dismissal.

‘The Royal Fleet?’ He prompted.

‘Has been starved of gold. The dromonds destroyed off Fair Isle have not been rebuilt. Many more are laid up ashore and left with no maintenance. Even those afloat are poorly crewed and ill-kept. All told, I’d be surprised if the King could have more than fifty vessels ready for battle within the next three turns, in spite of Lord Stannis’ efforts.’

_Weaker than I thought. Though it does suggest that Lord Paxter has more efficient informers on Dragonstone than I do._

‘So we’re at the Greyjoys’ mercy?’ Loras demanded, eyes flashing.

Lord Paxter shrugged.

‘There is nothing in the Seven Kingdoms to face them.’

-

‘How goes the rebuilding?’ Anaeryn asked Ser Joe, to whom he’d delegated the responsibility of disembarking the supplies and commanding his own and Lord Leyton’s working parties.

‘Well, my lord. Ser Hobber is barely adequate, but Lord Redwyne has everything under control. The town had been completely cleared of bodies even before we arrived. They’ve all been buried now, which should help stop sickness spreading. Lord Redwyne has given permission for timber from the nearest forest to be felled for the reconstruction of the town, although he seems to want to divert most of it into shipbuilding.’

‘We're leaving with the evening tide. I’ll talk to him before we go.’ Anaeryn assured him. ‘Is the man Lord Hightower sent to command his people adequate to the task?’

‘He is, my lord.’ Ser Joe declared solemnly.

‘Excellent. I am eager to return to Oldtown, and I don’t know if I could have borne the thought of leaving you here.’

-

‘You’re very good.’

Anaeryn raised his head, so caught up in his playing that he’d been surprised by intrusion of the warm voice. He blushed faintly as Loras entered, all dark gold curls and white teeth glowing in the soft candlelight.

For the outward journey he’d partitioned the large cabin he normally occupied into compartments for himself and his companions, Ser Loras, and Lord Redwyne and his sons. Now, without the Redwynes, he’d opted to simplify arrangements. Brienne was suffering from seasickness, even in the gentle conditions they were encountering, and had thus elected to sleep towards the centre of the ship, where the motion of the waves was less pronounced. Anaeryn had therefore chosen merely to split his cabin into two. He was sharing with Ser Loras, whilst Aurane and Perros occupied the second cabin. Trying to ignore his attraction to Lord Tyrell’s son, he told himself it had been the only possible arrangement. Asking Loras to share with anyone other than himself might have been considered a snub, although Aurane’s quiet smirks had proved almost unbearable.

‘Thank you. My aunt thought I should learn to play.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘I’d barely reached my seventh nameday and already she worried that I was spending too much time reading dusty tomes and scrolls.’ He grinned. ‘Music became my new obsession. I was so bad for the first few moons that she was desperately trying to get me to return to library.’

Loras laughed, moving a chair from the table in the centre of the cabin to sit in front of him.

‘My grandmother insists that all the minstrels are kept well away from her rooms at Highgarden. When she was told that Margaery and I were learning the high harp together she asked us whether we were planning to volunteer to scare birds from the smallfolk’s fields.’

Anaeryn chuckled, shifting the lyre from his lap and stretching out on the bench that ran along the stern, enjoying the fresh breeze drifting through the open windows.

‘I think my aunt harbours similar sentiments. She blamed me when Anara expressed interest in learning the high harp, although I think she secretly enjoys teaching her.’

‘You seem close to your cousin.’ Loras observed, making it sound like a question.

Anaeryn smiled softly.

‘Anara is special.’ He said, finding himself opening up almost against his will. There was something captivating about Loras. ‘My aunt was Lord Dondarrion’s second wife, and when he died shortly after Anara was born she decided to return to Starfall. The current Lord Dondarrion was always welcoming, and invited them to stay, but she thought there would always be some resentment.’ He paused. ‘I’m incredibly grateful she chose to come back to us, because without her, I might never have known Anara. I love that little girl, tantrums and all.’

He’d been looking down at the polished boards of the deck as he spoke, but when he looked up he found Loras gazing at him with a peculiarly intense expression.

They stared at one another for a few moments before looking away simultaneously, both blushing slightly.

‘How long will it take us to get back to Oldtown?’ Loras asked eventually.

‘A little longer than it took us to reach the Arbor, if the winds stay as they are.’ He replied, before frowning slightly. ‘Although both the Captain and I think they’re likely to die before we make land.’

‘We don’t have oars.’ Loras observed.

Anaeryn grinned.

‘No. Oars are useful for travelling without wind, or when the wind is blowing in completely the wrong direction.’ He acknowledged. ‘But it’s hopelessly inefficient to rely on them for long voyages; even the strongest oarsmen wouldn’t be able to keep up when we’re exceeding eight or nine knots, which we usually are.’ He shrugged. ‘_Fallen Star _will sail almost into the wind anyway, and adding enough oars to make reasonable headway on the very rare occasions we’re becalmed doesn’t make sense.’

‘So we’d just sit out here?’ Loras asked, smiling slightly.

‘Yes.’ Anaeryn agreed, before grinning. ‘Surely my company can’t be so bad that you’re already desperate to escape?’

‘Not at all.’ Loras protested hastily. ‘How did you become a sailor?’ He asked, quickly redirecting their conversation.

Anaeryn shrugged.

‘Necessity, really. I had ambitions for Starfall that couldn’t be realised without it becoming a major port. It also happens to be the only safe deepwater anchorage on the entire southern coast of Dorne. The gods gave me most of what I needed, but I soon discovered that I required timber to build ships.’

‘Sounds logical.’ Loras interjected, smirking in a way that Anaeryn suddenly found uncomfortably arousing.

‘Unfortunately, none of the trees that grow in the Torrentine valley are even remotely suited to shipbuilding, and what little timber in the rest of Dorne is suitable is quickly requisitioned by Sunspear.’

‘So you had to go to the Summer Isles?’ Loras asked, slightly disbelieving.

‘Well, the Oakhearts seemed remarkably unwilling to sell me seasoned timber.’ Anaeryn reasoned.

Loras grinned.

‘I shouldn’t wonder. Your houses have been enemies for what, three thousand years?’

‘Something like that.’ Anaeryn agreed. ‘I knew that Lord Redwyne needed all of his timber to maintain his own fleet, and that Oldtown fells a veritable forest every year to meet its demand. A swan ship happened to harbour in Starfall, and I spoke to the captain, who thought that the most powerful prince of Jhala was beginning to look beyond his lands and might be interested in trade.’

‘Jhala is one of the islands?’

Anaeryn nodded.

‘The largest. Also the only one where silverwood grows. Thankfully, Prince Halabo was more interested in negotiating than I’d dared to hope. The Summer Isles are rich in just about every natural resource, but poor in ore. The Prince was more than happy to trade silverwood and the expertise of his woodsingers for steel. It’s been a profitable relationship for both of us; and his dockyards now rival those of Koj, the island where nearly all of the swan ships are constructed.’

‘And you learned to sail travelling between Starfall and the Summer Isles?’

‘I learned to command a ship then, but I’ve loved boats and the sea since I was Anara’s age.’

‘And your wars on the edge of the world?’ Loras asked eagerly.

Anaeryn quirked an amused eyebrow.

‘My wars on the edge of the world?’

‘That’s what my grandmother calls them.’ Loras admitted, smiling.

‘I should be flattered to have merited the Queen of Thorns’ attention.’

‘I think she was using the term somewhat disparagingly.’ Loras noted drily. ‘She disapproves of lords who spend their time starting fights to make up for the size of their cocks.’

‘I promise that my starting fights has nothing to do with the size of my cock.’ Anaeryn grinned, shocked by his own brazenness. ‘What do you think of those lords?'

Loras smiled, blushing a little.

‘Well, I remember when news first reached Highgarden I was desperate to join you. I was fourteen and newly knighted, eager for a fight so I could prove myself and my vows.’

‘And now?’ Anaeryn asked curiously.

‘I can’t deny that a lot of me still wants to earn honour on the battlefield.’ Loras admitted. ‘But I appreciate more now that wars aren’t a tourney, or as the bards sing of them.’

‘I think calling them wars is an overstatement.’ Anaeryn began. ‘But it was how I managed to keep the trade routes to the Summer Isles open to me. Some of the smaller islands had begun to harbour outposts of the pirate nests that occupy most of the Basilisk Isles. They were an irritation to the Summer Islanders rather than anything more, truth be told; occasional raids on settlements by the sea and a few missing fishermen. The swan ships are more than able to defend themselves against pirates. Prince Halabo and his fellow rulers were simply frustrated that every time they chased the pirates back to their anchorages, they were able to disappear.’

‘Disappear?’

‘They used small galleys.’ Anaeryn explained. ‘With masts they could remove and fold down. Their shallow drafts meant they were able to row their galleys far inland into the swamps of their islands, where the swan ships couldn’t follow. The Summer Islanders caught a few vessels by pure chance, but when they tried landing on the islands they couldn’t find the pirates’ encampments.’

‘But you did?’

Anaeryn shrugged.

‘I had access to horses and hunting hounds. Neither of which the natives did. I mobilised a few hundred men and the first few sword ships we’d built. We went through the islands they were occupying one by one, blockading them and hunting down the pirates. We were only challenged to pitched battle twice, once on land and once at sea, and defeated them easily on both occasions.’

Loras sighed.

‘It makes my achievements look a little inconsequential when you were fighting battles and waging campaigns against pirates at fourteen namedays.’

‘I’d say landing the Kingslayer on his arse and winning both the joust and the melee of King Robert’s tourney at the same age is pretty impressive.’

The golden-haired youth adopted a modest look.

‘In my house that’s barely enough to hold one’s own. My brother Willas breeds the finest hawks and hounds in the Seven Kingdoms, as well as being keen of mind, and kind and patient in spite of his ruined leg. Margaery is the fairest woman in the realms, has the voice of the Maiden, plays the high harp well enough to make the High Septon weep, and dances exquisitely. I’m a better lance and sword than my other brother, Garlan, but with a mace, morningstar, longaxe or warhammer there are none to match him. I admit my father is a little less impressive, but in peacetime the Reach has never had a more popular lord. My mother has mastered all of the womanly arts and runs Highgarden with the efficiency of an army camp. My grandmother is a woman who scares even Tywin Lannister.’

‘A most intimidating family,’ Anaeryn acknowledged lightly. ‘But, apart from your sister, you’re the only member I’ve met.’

Loras smiled playfully.

‘I promise I set the bar disappointingly low.’

‘If that’s true then I’m not sure I’d be able to comprehend the magnificence of the rest of the Tyrells.’ He remarked.

Loras grinned.

‘Why have you never visited Highgarden?’ He asked curiously.

‘You seem to forget that until recently I was a mere lord of Dorne and had very little to do with the Reach.’

‘Lord Hightower is your grandfather.’ Loras pointed out.

_Not quite, although he is yours, _Anaeryn disagreed internally.

‘I had no contact with him at all until he invited me to the tourney.’ Anaeryn confessed.

Loras looked slightly surprised, but let it pass.

‘Well, as soon as this mess with the Ironborn has been sorted out, you must visit Highgarden.’ Loras insisted.

‘I will.’ Anaeryn promised immediately.


	6. Chapter 6

‘Heave to, Captain.’ Anaeryn ordered ‘The men are exhausted and we’re not making any headway.’

The wind had abandoned them a few leagues to the south of the Whispering Sound, leaving their flotilla becalmed tantalisingly close to land, with the Hightower a barely visible smear against the horizon.

Captain Morin nodded, ordering the sails furled and the men, who’d spent most of the morning aloft wetting them to catch the merest cupful of moving air, back to their quarters.

Anaeryn stood on the quarterdeck with his companions, eyeing the sky with a frown

‘How long will this last?’ Perros asked.

Captain Morin glanced briefly at Anaeryn before responding.

‘I don’t rightly know, ser.’ He said. ‘Wind could be back in an hour or a week.’

Anaeryn looked back from his examination of the fine and cloudless blue sky, throwing an irritated stare at the captain, who was an excellent seaman and brave to a fault, but unfortunately unwilling to make predictions that might be proved wrong.

‘We should get enough of a breeze to make sail again by this evening.’ He asserted with a confidence that he didn’t really feel, but felt the need to express because of Captain Morin’s equivocating.

‘I’m going to take a swim.’ He announced suddenly, to the surprise of everyone save Aurane and Brienne. The former immediately declared his support for the idea, whilst the latter eyed the water surrounding them with deep suspicion.

Anaeryn stripped off the fine linen shirt he was wearing, already open almost to the waist, followed quickly by his breeches, to stand on deck, grinning, in only his smallclothes.

Brienne flushed a violent red and immediately averted her gaze. Perros looked somewhat bewildered by the goings on. Aurane began to take his clothes off to join him. Loras… Anaeryn couldn’t help but smirk even as he blushed to find Loras’ suddenly dark gaze caressing his body. His new friend looked away almost as quickly as Brienne had when eventually he met his eyes.

Anaeryn was quickly distracted by Aurane’s yell as he threw his breeches to one side and sprinted across the deck, leaping over the rail to land in the sea with a splash. Anaeryn laughed and followed, though he paused at the side, balancing for a moment before diving smoothly into the crystal clear water.

He’d barely reemerged before Aurane was onto him, grabbing him from behind and dragging him beneath the water for a moment before he managed to extricate himself and turn the tables on his friend.

He let Aurane burst back to the surface eventually, spluttering and cursing him violently.

Anaeryn laughed and set off swimming around the ship, admiring the reflection of the water lapping gently against her gleaming hulls.

‘Sails ahead!’

He stopped, mid-stroke, head jerking upwards. The lookout perched at the mainmast masthead was waving frantically.

‘Do we have to get out?’

Aurane’s voice came from behind him, and he turned towards his friend.

‘Looks like we’d better.’ He agreed, swimming back to _Fallen Star _and pulling himself up a rope thrown by one of the crew.

He grasped the offered hand when he reached the rail, and found himself hauled over and steadied upon the deck. Anaeryn couldn’t help but wish that the touch had lingered a little longer on his dripping form, but to his disappointment Loras quickly stepped back and focused his gaze firmly upon his face.

‘The Ironborn?’

‘Longships, my lord!’

Anaeryn thanked Ferryon as his squire hastily passed him a thick linen cloth. Drying himself, he saw Loras’ face pale slightly as his question was answered by the shout.

‘How many?’ Anaeryn called up. He waited as the boy peered towards the horizon.

‘Ten or eleven, my lord.’

He looked back at the other five ships of their flotilla, sitting quietly in the still water behind them like a row of ducklings following their mother.

The longships were unlikely to be part of the Iron Fleet, in which case they were almost certainly raiding vessels of the usual size; perhaps thirty oars and as many warriors on each. In that moment he regretted stripping his ships bare of archers, and leaving the majority of his guard behind in Oldtown. With a wind they could have fled without effort, but becalmed they were easy prey for oared vessels.

‘Orders, my lord?’ Captain Morin asked, joining him.

‘None for the moment, I need to take a look.’ He threw the towel to one side and quickly pulled on the shirt and breeches Ferryon handed him. The mainmast, a long, straight spar of pine, thrust up from the centre of the ship, its top spiralling gently more than a hundred feet above the swell. Growing up in Starfall, with its tall towers and surrounding mountains, he’d never been afraid of heights, but Anaeryn couldn’t help but remember the first time he’d attempted to climb a ship’s rigging. The tarred rope beneath his feet had creaked and shifted alarmingly, and the higher he got the more pronounced the swaying became. He’d collapsed onto the narrow platform halfway up the mast of the merchantman, and clung desperately to the planks for long moments before he’d managed to open his dizzy eyes.

That had been long years ago, though, and it was without hesitation that he now grasped for the ratlines and pulled himself quickly upwards to join the lookout who’d spotted the Ironborn.

‘There, my lord.’ The thin and painfully sunburned boy, who couldn’t have been more than twelve, told him, stretching an arm towards a distant point on the haze shrouded horizon.

Anaeryn took the far-eye he offered and aimed it in the indicated direction. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, but he quickly found the outlines of a number of dark, sleek hulls. The visibility was good, but without their huge mainsails flying, the Ironnborn ships had managed to close to within a few miles before being spotted. Anaeryn knew that they’d almost certainly spied his own ships; raiding Ironborn almost always carried their own far-eyes, costly as they were, and the ominous shapes were heading straight for them.

He slid himself carefully down a backstay, rejoining the others on the quarterdeck.

‘Longships,’ he confirmed unnecessarily. ‘Ser Joe, how many archers do we have between the ships?’

‘Twenty aboard _Fallen Star_, my lord, and perhaps another fifty amongst the others.’

_Fewer than a hundred, all told, then. _Anaeryn thought with frustration. With her full complement, _Fallen Star _alone mounted eighty, and the other five ships, although considerably smaller, forty apiece.

‘We have plenty of ammunition, at least?’ He asked.

‘Yes, my lord, nigh on ten thousand shafts. I ensured that we were as well provisioned as possible with Lord Hightower’s supplies and men occupying so much of the space.’

Anaeryn found himself, for what must have been the thousandth time, profoundly grateful for Ser Joe’s efficiency,.

‘Excellent.’ He declared, thinking quickly. ‘Ferryon, order the other ships to close with us.’

‘What do you intend, my lord?’ Captain Morin asked respectfully, glancing back at the other vessels, which were already within a hundred yards of one another.

‘We will lash the ships together.’ Anaeryn declared. ‘It shouldn’t cause too much damage with the sea as calm as it is, and it will prevent the Ironborn from all being able to attack at once. With their oars out, their ships will be as wide as ours, and so to board us more than four or five at a time they’ll have to manoeuvre around.’

‘Which will give us time.’ Ser Joe said, nodding.

‘Just so. _Fallen Star _will sit at the western end of the line. She’s larger than the others and will present a more tempting target. With the current as it is and the Ironborn approaching from the north west, the western end of the line will be engaged first.’

‘We’re to be boarded first, m’lord?’ Captain Morin asked, frowning.

‘The remainder of my guards are on board, Captain.’ Anaeryn told him. ‘The other ships all have a handful of archers, and weapons for the crews, but they have no trained swords.’

-

‘Shit.’

‘I find it difficult to disagree with your assessment.’ Anaeryn told Aurane.

The lookout had descended from his perch so quickly he’d stumbled as he hit the deck. As the Ironborn had rowed themselves into plainer view he’d managed to count a total of fourteen hulls. It was not the number, however, that had prompted Aurane’s exclamation. Towards the rear of the approaching enemy, half-shielded by her fellows, the lookout had made out a hull much larger than the others. The vessel couldn’t be anything other than one of the Iron Fleet, a ship designed to stand in battle against a war dromond. She would dip as many as a hundred oars, and no doubt mounted something in the way of artillery on her stout deck.

‘Have your orders changed, my lord?’ Ser Joe asked from beside him. His steady voice and unruffled expression served to calm the prickle of fear Anaeryn had begun to feel at this latest news.

‘No. They stand all the firmer. The larger ship is almost certain to make its way towards us. She will carry as many warriors as she has oars, and none of the others would stand a chance,’ he declared, gesturing briefly towards the smaller vessels tethered in a line stretching out from _Fallen Star_’s starboard side.

‘We had better be ready then, my lord.’ The captain of his guards snapped off a salute and went to drag his warriors up from below, where they’d be enjoying what would undoubtedly for some, perhaps all, be their last meal. The Lord of Starfall’s guard numbered some hundred men and women in total, but aboard there were fewer than thirty. Thirty had been left at Starfall to protect Anaeryn’s family, and another forty sat at Oldtown, almost within touching distance, surrounding his tents and his cousin.

‘You should armour yourself, my lord.’

Anaeryn eyed Ferryon with amusement.

‘And why should I armour myself when I have a squire to perform such menial tasks for me?’

The boy flushed slightly.

‘You are right, however; the Ironborn had best not find me naked.’ He agreed, feeling merciful and leading his squire belowdecks to the cabin he shared with Ser Loras.

Returning above some minutes later, securely fastened into a light and beautifully made suit of smoke grey plate, he discovered that the Ironborn were now plainly visible from the deck.

‘I had best follow your example, my lord.’ Loras declared, waving his own squire over.

The jealousy Anaeryn had discovered himself feeling with increasing frequency around Thaddeus Rowan returned, hot and sour as the youth hastily followed his master down to the cabin. He forced aside the feeling as he returned his attention to the matter at hand.

‘Very kind of you, my lord, it is.’

Anaeryn turned to the massive, gruff and heavily bearded form of one of his guards. Karl Fommok was of Norvoshi extraction, and had been working as a guard to one of the bearded priests who ruled that city when Anaeryn met him in Volantis. His previous employer’s luck had abandoned him twofold on that particular trip; not only had he failed to negotiate the trading concessions he would have liked from the triarchs, but had had one of the more formidable members of his guard lured away by foreign gold and promises of adventure.

‘How so, Karl?’ Anaeryn asked lightheartedly.

‘Well, my lord,’ the man continued, shrugging shoulders that must have been nearly twice as wide as Anaeryn’s own, ‘with the wind gone we was getting a bit…’ he paused for a moment, straining his knowledge of the Common Tongue to find the word, ‘restless. And now we find you’ve laid on a feast for our steel.’ He finished, with what Anaeryn couldn’t help but think was genuine satisfaction.

He could see the man’s confidence lending strength to those around him. But then, he mused, a man who wielded a double-headed axe with a shaft as long as Anaeryn was tall would ordinarily have little reason to fear the human ants that surrounded him.

‘Your bows are ready, captain?’

Xohan Quickloose, so named both for his ability to release three arrows before the first hit its mark, and a rumoured inability to hold his seed for much longer than as many strokes when whoring, grinned at him, teeth shockingly white against his gleaming black skin.

‘Thickly waxed and tightly strung, my lord.’ He said, voice a deep rumble, holding out his bow.

Anaeryn took it, noticing that the massive goldenheart longbow overtopped him by more than a head. Its draw was immense, and even when straining he could barely pull its string past his shoulder. He handed it back to his owner, who went on to stretch it back to his ear with little apparent difficulty.

‘We’re going to need that strength of yours before the day is out.’ Anaeryn told him, going on to exchange a few words in the tongue of the Summer Isles with the company of archers who clustered around Xohan.

-

The sea was still and brilliant. The Ironborn much were closer now and the longships, with their scuttling banks of oars, gleamed like great insects in the hard light of the sun.

‘Is it always like this?’ Loras asked.

Anaeryn looked at him curiously, having to narrow his eyes againstthe reflections dancing from Loras’ silver plate.

‘The waiting.’ Mace Tyrell’s son explained, voice edged with frustration.

‘Always.’ Anaeryn agreed, smiling slightly and feeling some of his own tension release.

‘Won’t the rowing exhaust their men?’ Loras continued, watching the steady dip and feather of hundreds of blades now less than half a mile distant.

Anaeryn shook his head.

‘The Ironborn use thralls, not warriors, on the rowing benches; men whose existence is little better than that of a slave. They are chained to their oars at the start of a voyage, and not released until the ships return to harbour.’

Loras looked shocked.

‘But slavery is outlawed in the Seven Kingdoms.’ He protested.

‘The Ironborn have never really been a part of the Seven Kingdoms, and their islands are thousands of leagues by sea from King’s Landing. A treaty with Braavos supposedly outlaws slavery in Pentos, and yet the city is full of indentured servants whose wages amount to less than the cost of their food and shelter. In both cases I fear that the price of a military expedition has been found greater than the moral victory of true freedom.’

He’d spoken calmly, having partially reconciled himself with the existence such outrages in a world that was both vicious and unfair, but Loras’ expression was heated.

‘Men break the laws of the Seven, and the faithful prove too weak to stop them.’ He declared angrily.

The words hit Anaeryn like hammer blows, distracting him even from the threat of imminent death. He’d dared to hope that the almost violent attraction he felt towards Loras was at least somewhat mutual, but the Faith was unequivocal in its condemnation. If Loras damned others for being too weak to fight for the Seven’s teachings, then it seemed unlikely he would be willing to act upon whatever feelings he might have.

‘My lord?’ Ser Joe asked curiously.

Anaeryn pulled himself from his daze. Loras was looking at him with a slight frown, apparently concerned.

The sight of the approaching longships jerked his attention back to the matter at hand. The bigger vessel had surged in front of her companions and, more alarmingly, their course had changed. The Ironborn were new rowing directly towards the eastern edge of the line, away from _Fallen Star _and towards the tiny _Windrush_, beautiful and nervous and exposed.

There was little he could do. Without a wind sword ships could barely move. It had taken ropes and huge amounts of exertion to haul his flotilla together, and there was no time to alter their positions again.

‘Ser Joe.’ He decided, watching the steady approach of the enemy, ‘we will be moving across to _Windrush_. Xohan, I would be grateful if half of your company came with us.’

The two men saluted hastily and gave their orders. Within a few moments Anaeryn was surrounded by his guards as they scrambled over the railings and across the narrow gaps between the ships. Wearing armour, they had to be careful, for a man who fell into the water in a suit of plate was unlikely to stay afloat long enough for rescue.

‘My lord.’

Anaeryn looked up at _Windrush_’s captain, juggling his helm in one arm whilst manoeuvring the big shield strapped to the other.

‘Captain Grenger.’ He greeted. It was no struggle to remember the man’s name. _Windrush_’s commander couldn’t have been much over twenty, and was tall and muscular, with long dark hair and bright green eyes.

‘I was hoping you’d send some support over to us, but I didn’t expect you to come yourself, my lord.’ The man continued cheerfully, flashing him a devilish grin.

‘Valiant though you are, Captain, we couldn’t let you have all the glory.’ Anaeryn replied, returning the expression.

‘Just so.’ Loras added. Anaeryn couldn’t help but feel a certain satisfaction when he saw the glare Mace Tyrell’s son was directing towards Captain Grenger.

Thwack.

He jerked around, and almost flinched when his gaze met the still thrumming shaft of ash that had buried itself into the deck a few steps from where he stood. The scorpion’s bolt was embedded so deeply into the planking that none of its long steel head could be seen.

‘We’re in range.’ Ser Joe commented. ‘You’d best don your helm, my lord.’

Ser Loras’ face had paled a little. He hastened to fix his gleaming helmet into place, the long green plumes trailing from it fluttering with the movement of his head.

‘They’re almost in range, my lord.’

Anaeryn nodded stiffly at Xohan, who had accompanied his archers over to the smaller ship.

‘Begin firing as soon as they are.’ He instructed. With the odds so heavily against them there seemed no point in concealing their archers until the Ironborn had closed the distance. It was only their yard long shafts that would give them any chance of escaping alive. Anaeryn could see Xohan’s dark eyes measuring the distance between themselves and the great longship leading the enemy’s charge.

‘Draw!’ He called suddenly, and the creak of waxed limbs filled the air, echoed along the line of vessels.

‘Release!’

Anaeryn, visor still raised, watched the arrows flicker upwards, trajectory steep at the outermost limit of the bows’ ranges. A goldenheart longbow could send a bodkin-tipped arrow near four hundred yards with a strong arm and a kind wind. It was said that only bows wrought from dragonbone could shoot further.

Almost invisible splashes marked a few misses, but Anaeryn could see far more arrows dropping over the high prow of the foremost longship. The enemy’s pace did not slow, but as they came closer the agonised cries of injured men could be made out, telling their own tale of the archers’ success. The bolts from the scorpion raised high on its platform on the deck of the ship of the Iron Fleet flew sporadically. Half a dozen shots missed anything of note, before the seventh slammed itself through a member of the crew near the front of the ship. It had been fired from such close range that it threw the man backwards and pinned his corpse to the deck, gushing blood.

Anaeryn felt Perros recoil from the sight, but there was nothing they could do for the man.

‘Some sand.’ He called to one of the boys who were bringing boxes of arrows up onto the deck for the archers. The blood congealed into a thick pink paste when a bucket of the stuff was scattered around the dead man, making the deck a little less treacherous than it had been.

It seemed but a few short heartbeats before Xohan’s archers were falling back from the rail, firing a final few arrows at point blank range before retreating behind the armoured bodies of Anaeryn’s guards. The Lord of Starfall caught a glimpse of a great bronze figurehead, wrought in the shape of a skinless, screaming man, before the huge longship pulled in its oars in a single, seamless motion and drew alongside.

Anaeryn flicked down his visor and drew his sword. He had no time to be grateful that the Ironborn hadn’t rammed _Windrush_ before the narrow slit of his vision was filled with fire. He saw two guards in front of him engulfed in a billowing cloud of brilliant orange. The fierce heat brushed against his face through the gaps in his helm, but as quickly as the flames had appeared they vanished with a hollow, whooshing sound. As the men of Starfall fell back instinctively, the deck they abandoned was filled with a single, huge cry and a mass of mailed bodies.

A flash of silver darted into Anaeryn’s sight, and almost before he knew what he was doing he found himself throwing himself after Loras. He dimly heard Ser Joe shouting orders to the guards, forming them up into a solid line of heavy shields and armour plated flesh, but his blood was rushing in his ears, and all else faded into the ring of steel on steel.

-

Loras had never taken a fight further than first blood, rarely his own, and so it was an unknown kind of madness that prompted his charge. Eyes blinking back the afterimage of the flames, he raised his shield instinctively to block a blow from a warhammer that still managed to jar his arm to the shoulder. He lashed out against its wielder, sword a pale tongue of silver as it stabbed forwards from beneath his shield to catch the man in the thigh. Used to the blunted blades of training yards and tournament melees, he found himself momentarily startled by the feel of the metal sinking into soft flesh before grating against bone. He barely caught sight the dull shine of an oiled axe blade as it fell from above in a great overheard blow. Sword and shield hopelessly out of position, he flung himself to one side.

The axe dropped through the air an inch away from where his body had been, space now occupiedby a dancing figure of smoke and sinew. The axe hit the deck and clattered away, the hand that had wielded it still clutched around its haft. Anaeryn stepped forwards smoothly, twisting his blade to plunge its tip through the man’s armpit and into his heart.

Loras hastily pulled himself back to his feet and stepped up beside his friend, who seemed to be holding his own without assistance, twisting gracefully away from blows he couldn’t possibly have seen and moving as though completely unencumbered by his armour.

The stench of fresh spilled blood and shit was beginning to cut through the metallic sweat of a body in armour, but trained reflexes had settled over his senses. He slipped a short lunge around a small and bearded man’s round blue shield and withdrew his blade to find the top six inches stained crimson with blood. He pulled quickly back behind the cover of his shield as the man he’d stabbed fell to the ground with a soft groan.

Before he could do more than fend off a flurry of blows from a pair of new opponents, one of the two Tyrell guardsmen who’d accompanied him from Oldtown came up beside him and threw his heavy bastard blade into the leg of one of the men. His dangling mail stopped the blow from cutting flesh, but the force had been sufficient to break the bone beneath, and the man staggered, injured limb flopping obscenely.

Without really thinking, Loras took advantage of the other Ironborn’s momentary distraction to stab viciously into his groin, layers of leather and linen giving way beneath his blade before he withdrew it in a spray of blood and urine.

More raiders were flooding the deck, shoving their fellows forwards in their haste to board _Windrush_. Loras and the guardsman were forced to fall back a few paces, quickly finding themselves pulled into the line of locked shields supported by the Lord of Starfall’s men. Twisting his head, Loras saw that Anaeryn had been similarly enveloped further along, shoved in behind Ser Joe.

‘Forward!’

Temporarily sheltered behind the thin line of men, Loras was forced to admire their discipline as they took a step in unison, stabbing together with their swords, a huge man at the far end bearing no shield and swinging a mighty axe with both hands. The line, which had been bowing slightly under the onslaught, reconstituted itself with new momentum, half a dozen Ironborn dropping in an instant. Under Ser Joe’s steady commands they pressed their advantage, pushing the enemy back to a yard of deck hard against the rail.

He could almost feel a collective shiver go through the enemy ranks as a few of Xohan’s archers began to drive shafts into them from above, having climbed the lower rigging.

But their success was temporary. Moments before even Loras’ inexperience told him the Ironborn charge would have broken, a thickset man in gilded mail standing atop a platform on the great longship’s deck roared out a command. The mace he whirled above his head gleamed in a sudden flare of sunlight, and his shout was echoed back a hundredfold as fresh bodies from the longships that had come up alongside his own charged aboard.

The new reavers herded their disheartened comrades before them, instilling new strength in the rearmost ranks even as those at the front were bundled onto the blades of Anaeryn’s guards. The Ironborn stepped mercilessly on their own fallen, using the height advantage given by the corpses to crest the wave of their new advance and rain blows down.

The shield wall was holding, discipline and skill and plate armour proving their worth, but they were being pushed inexorably backwards. The hard won deck was littered with Ironborn corpses, but carpeted with their living fellows, shouting and swearing and charging into the foul smelling air.

The man in front of Loras suddenly staggered backwards, falling to the deck with a clatter, sword falling from his grasp and blood pooling from between the joints of his gauntlet.

Loras pushed himself forwards, again without thought, skewering the Ironborn who’d crushed the man’s hand with a foot more steel that his father’s master-at-arms would have approved of.

‘Shield up.’ The man beside him growled from behind his visor, voice thick with strain.

Loras hastily raised the solid board of steel-banded oak, emerald green and proudly blazoned with three golden roses. Now that he was part of the line, he could feel the pressure it was straining under. The flanks were safe; the finite length of the ship and steady hail of arrows had them secured. But the centre, near to where he found himself, was being worn down rapidly by its labours, the simple weight of enemies shoving forwards beginning to tell once more. There was no room for the intricate swordplay of his training, for there was barely space enough between his shield and his fellows to thrust his blade forwards in short lunges.

The Ironborn were suffering more, though, for their small, round shields and charging tactics were ill-suited to the tight press. They relied on being the only ones armoured in a fight, knowing that few were willing or foolish enough to wear heavy shirts of iron at sea. Faced by an apparently immovable wall, and men better protected than they were, they screamed and shoved and died.

But they still had many times Starfall’s numbers, and suits of plate worn and heavy weapons wielded in the hot, still air exhausted a man’s strength as quickly as any Lyseni whore could hope to. It wasn’t until Loras’ foot slipped in a pool of blood that he realised he’d been slowly stepping backwards. The Ironborn were advancing across the deck, and now fully half the ship was theirs. His arm was numb and shaking from blows and the demands of holding its weight aloft, and thick, sticky blood was congealing in the joints in his armour, further slowing his movement.

The man next to him, who’d ordered him to lift his now unbearably heavy shield, fell back with a soft grunt, and it was only with a hard flurry of blows that Loras’ second Tyrell guardsman managed to push himself into the empty space.

Loras staggered, now facing a bearded giant who must have been twice his weight and more, piggy eyes black with malice and wielding a deeply notched sword with a blade that seemed as wide as his head. He knew instinctively that he had no choice, for the man’s strength was like to be enough to break his arm, shield or no. If he fell back, then the line was lost, and he was hemmed in to either side by the grunting guardsmen in their vine-filigreed helms. And so he fell, clanking, to his knees and shoved himself forwards, dropping both sword and shield. His manoeuvre was not quite as smooth as he might have hoped, and clumsiness born of exhaustion meant that that the pommel of the giant’s sword, sweeping upwards, caught a him ringing blow to the helm. He was momentarily knocked from his senses, before his sudden proximity to the iron tang of the blood staining the deck dragged him, retching, back to them. He twisted to jerk the ivory handled misericorde from his belt, and drew it with his remaining strength across the back of one of the big man’s knees. The finely wrought blade’s edge had been ground white with sharpness, and it cut through the coarse cloth of the stained breeches as though it were cobweb, biting deep into tendon and ligament and artery.

Loras scrambled back from the gush of blood. For one impossible moment he thought the thin cheer that rose suddenly was for him, for bringing down the terrifying figure, now screaming and writhing upon the deck. It became clear, however, when he dragged himself to his feet amidst the suddenly slacking pressure of the enemy, that he was not the saviour.

Arrows hummed down thickly into the Ironborn ranks, fired from above and at close range. Scanning the scene, Loras found two of the smaller sword ships had cut loose from their position and pulled themselves laboriously alongside the bow and stern of the big longship, held in place by her smaller siblings. Archers clustered in the rigging of the two vessels, and their volleys were taking their toll. Loras could he Ser Joe calling the advance again, and pushed his way back behind his Tyrell guardsmen to collect his sword and shield.

The change rolled across the battle with surprising rapidity, and almost as soon as Loras had pushed his way back into the shield wall, the men in front of him turned and began to flee. The rush of blood had left him, and he felt only sickened as he was carried on by the momentum of the men to either side, who both cut mercilessly at the exposed backs of the escaping Ironborn. Relief threatened to overwhelm him when he heard Anaeryn’s voice lift above the swell.

‘Halt.’

The men flanking him were both sworn to Highgarden, but they ceased their strokes almost as quickly as the Lord of Starfall’s own, stopping at the rail and letting a last few enemies throw themselves aboard their ship.

He quickly came to see the sense in the order, for though the ships were tied with half a dozen grapnels, a thick ribbon of blue sat between the hulls, pulsing slightly with the gentle rocking of the swell. The Ironborn had spent all of their lives at sea, and would fling themselves aboard enemy ships in twenty pounds of armour and with a hurricane blowing. Starfall’s men knew the sea less well, and their armour was considerably heavier. Besides, the fight had been won, he thought with a sudden thrill of exhilaration, and there was no point to risking further lives.

But he realised that Anaeryn’s order had not been a general ceasefire, for the enemy were still writhing and the arrows still falling like rain. He was forced to watch with horror as the once-fierce warriors were slaughtered where they stood, trapped by the weather and manoeuvres that had once been so much to their advantage.

‘Stop.’

He hadn’t realised he’d removed his helm as he crossed the deck, and was shocked to hear his voice sound so hoarse and desperate.

The Lord of Starfall had retained his own helm, but the visor was lifted. In spite of himself, Loras was caught up in the stormy eyes that turned to him, mesmerised by the bead of sweat that trickled slowly down the flawless, grime-smeared features.

‘Stop?’ Anaeryn’s voice was calm, but his jaw was clenched.

Loras struggled to find the words that supported his conviction.

‘This.’ He said, gesturing, hardly noticing the sword still in his grasp. ‘There is no honour in murdering the defeated.’ He declared, though the words rang hollow somehow.

Anaeryn narrowed his eyes slightly, gaze playing over Loras’ face as though trying to understand.

‘This was a large raiding force.’ He said eventually. ‘Enough ships to sack almost any coastal town or holdfast. Men, women, children. Innocents.’ His tone had become less urbane, more clipped. ‘They would have been raped and killed without mercy, without quarter.’ His gaze darkened as it swept over Loras’ form, seeming to inspect him for injuries. The intensity of the stare made Loras shiver unconsciously. ‘As would we.’ Anaeryn paused again, glancing away briefly, collecting himself. ‘If I let them go, they will have returned to their ways before the sun sets. Their strength will be absorbed back into Euron’s. More, they would be able to report my ships to him; their presence, and the capabilities of the men who defend them.’

‘You could imprison them…’ He offered, cursing how weakly the words came out.

‘A few will survive.’ The Lord of Starfall said unemotionally, though Loras thought he saw something flicker within those indigo pools. ‘They will be bandaged and interrogated. But Ironborn reavers know little of life bought and earned with anything save the iron price. Imprisoning them would do nothing but waste resources.’ He stopped and appeared to consider something. ‘But I will keep a number for Lord Hightower to execute in Oldtown.’ His mouth twisted. ‘The smallfolk must have their bloodlust slaked.’

He turned away abruptly, talking to Ser Joe, and leaving Loras to find his squire to help extract him from armour that was smeared crimson from breast to heel.

-

‘How do you feel?’

Loras looked up, setting aside the whetstone he’d been using to resharpen his blade. He was happy for his squire look after his armour; even now Thaddeus was probably sweating to sand out the scratches from his plate, but he’d always been taught to look after his sword himself. He couldn’t help but be a little proud that he was grinding away the remnants of real battle for the first time.

‘Feel?’ He asked Anaeryn as the young lord came into their shared cabin and sat down on his own narrow bed across from him.

‘Was today the first time you killed a man?’

Loras nodded, blushing slightly.

Anaeryn smirked at him.

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I was sick immediately after I killed my first, and had nightmares for a moon’s turn afterwards.’

Loras frowned.

‘I feel fine, I think.’ He said. ‘I know I tried to stop you from killing the Ironborn… but I don’t feel guilty that they’re dead, and I’m not sickened by my part in it.’

Anaeryn nodded, eyeing him carefully.

‘I’m glad you’re not injured.’


	7. Chapter 7

‘Clever.’

Anaeryn looked curiously at Loras, only too grateful to turn his attention away from the great throngs of cheering smallfolk crowding the banks of the Honeywine.

‘The Dayne banners.’ Loras explained, nodding towards the great streams of purple silk snapping in the wind. They had managed to capture only eight of the fourteen longships, all told, for the survivors of one of the enemy crews had managed to set a torch to their vessel before it could be secured. The resulting blaze had threatened to spread to all of the ships tied together, but quick action had seen a number of the enemy vessels sacrificed as fire breaks, and pushed desperately away from the remainder. The thralls still chained to the benches in their hulls had screamed terribly as they perished. The prizes, now cleared of corpses, floated obediently behind their captors as they entered Oldtown. The sword and star of House Dayne flew at each of their mastheads, victorious over the colours of House Drumm, to whom the longships had belonged.

‘Why?’

‘They make it your victory, rather than House Hightower’s.’ Loras said. ‘Having the support of the common folk personally helps to secure your being Lord Leyton’s heir.’

Anaeryn grinned and nodded.

‘We didn’t have any Hightower banners.’ He replied. ‘But yes, I can’t deny that my main purpose was building my support in the city.’

‘Your victory will raise morale in the city, my lord.’ Ser Joe declared.

‘Our victory, Ser Joe.’ Anaeryn corrected him, watching carefully as _Fallen Star _came alongside the dock and the waiting reception committee.

‘Nephew!’

Anaeryn rolled his eyes as Ser Garth roared his greeting and bowled up the gangplank to embrace him.

‘You have defeated the Ironborn!’ He shouted, grinning as the cheers of the smallfolk increased in volume.

‘Some of them.’

-

Loras thought Lord Hightower seemed to have aged a decade in the short time he had been away. The old man leant heavily upon a lacquered cane as he stood and came over to greet them.

‘Welcome back, gentlemen.’ He said briefly, before waving them shortly to seats. ‘I must congratulate you on your victory.’

Loras inclined his head respectfully as he took a seat next to Anaeryn. Ser Joe stood guard behind them in the shadows, having refused to leave his master’s side in the city.

‘I can only hope that we have saved some holdfasts from destruction.’ His friend said calmly.

‘I’m certain Lord Bulwer and Lord Costayne will be only too eager to shower you with their thanks.’ Lord Leyton said crisply, before moving on. ‘I take it that Lord Paxter has been returned safely?’

‘He has.’ Anaeryn replied, apparently unmoved by the change of direction and relative lack of thanks. ‘I have left the men you sent with me to aid in the reconstruction. It seems like to take a number of months.’

Lord Hightower nodded, apparently having expected the news.

‘Lord Paxter needs them more than I, and we have larger concerns now.’

Loras watched Anaeryn lift a brow as he took a cup of honeyed water from the tray offered by a servant.

‘The Ironborn have continued and expanded their depredations. They are raiding the entirety of the western coast, from the Shields all the way to Bear Island in the far north. Crakehall in the Westerlands has been razed to the ground and Lady Oakheart has been taken captive.’

Loras tensed, his breath catching in his throat.

‘The Shields still hold?’ He asked, hearing the anxiety bleed into his voice.

‘Yes, Ser Loras. The Lords of the Shields have held their castles against the Ironborn for a thousand years. With the attack on the Arbor they had sufficient warning to shore up their defences. The last bird from Highgarden said that two attacks have been repulsed, though at significant cost.’

‘And Starfall?’ Loras was grateful that he wasn’t the only one showing concern.

‘We have heard nothing, but unless your castellan has been told differently then he is more likely to report to Sunspear than to Oldtown or Highgarden.’

He could see Anaeryn’s jaw tighten

‘And Oldtown?’ He forced out.

‘Nothing, as of yet. Our defences are formidable, and I suspect that the Ironborn know that. For the moment they seem to be preying upon easier targets.’

‘Destroying our ships and keeping our forces divided.’ Anaeryn said.

‘Precisely.’ Lord Leyton agreed. ‘And so we must gather what we can here, and pray that the Ironborn collect their ships and then choose to shatter their hammer against our anvil.’

Loras thought privately that that was wishful thinking. Euron Greyjoy was clearly too cunning a commander to launch a fleet against a city he could not hope to conquer within a matter of hours. If he committed to a siege then the vast manpower of the Reach would roll in a great wave over his land forces, just as his own ships had dashed Lord Redwyne’s strength at sea.

‘Our problem remains, however,’ Lord Hightower continued. ‘The Royal Fleet is in no fit state to face the threat. Likewise, the remaining fleets of Westeros are too small and too scattered. We might be safe blockading ourselves in port, but the merchant guilds will be crippled. Through the waters of the Honeywine and the Whispering Sound runs the trading lifeblood of the Reach. Already I have representatives from every guild in the city demanding a solution and refusing to pay their taxes until their trade routes are made safe.’

‘We destroyed a significant raiding party.’ Anaeryn pointed out.

‘And yet the trade routes remain closed.’ Lord Leyton said irritably. ‘Your ships can outrun, and apparently outfight, theirs, but fat bottomed merchant cogs and galleys are as vulnerable at sea as a pretty maiden in a brothel.’

‘Perhaps, when more of my vessels arrive, I can offer a number of them to the guilds to run their more valuable cargoes. Sword ships do not have the holds of great cogs, but those we use for trading will carry thirty tons.’

‘Do you have any idea how many ships the merchant guilds of Oldtown lay claim to?’ Lord Leyton continued before he could respond. ‘Nigh on four thousand. Spice cutters and trading carracks. Fruit barges and grain freighters with holds large enough to carry a thousand tons of wheat. Oldtown is the biggest port in the world west of Volantis, and a few hundred tons of cargo capacity will choke it just as surely as none.’

Loras was impressed that Anaeryn’s expression remained unmoved.

‘The situation is far from ideal.’ He acknowledged calmly. ‘But if the guilds are unwilling to risk their own vessels, then I would hope for a certain amount of gratitude that I am happy to endanger mine.’

Lord Leyton picked up on the fact that his words were not aimed solely at the merchant companies.

‘You have my thanks.’ He declared grudgingly. ‘Although you’ll no doubt charge my tradesfolk a noble ransom for the use of your ships.’

‘So we must wait until the Ironborn attack us?’ Loras asked into the silence that ensued.

Lord Leyton eyed him calmly.

‘I have sent my son, Ser Humfrey, to King’s Landing, and directed him to take ship from there to Lys and hire sellsails. He is unlikely to be able to procure sufficient numbers to face the Ironborn, even in conjunction with our own vessels, but the more stoutly Oldtown is defended and the more shipping we protect, the more able we are to gather our strength in peace.’

-

The weather seemed oddly appropriate for his undertaking, Anaeryn thought, as he made his way along winding cobblestoned streets that gleamed wetly in the glow of an almost full moon.

‘You could have brought someone else with you.’

Anaeryn glanced briefly back at his companion. Aurane’s customarily sunny face looked uncharacteristically dour; miserable at being dragged from his bed and shadowed by the deep cowl of his hood.

He didn’t bother replying to his friend, instead turning off the street and onto the waterfront.

They arrived eventually at a narrow walkway that extended into the Honeywine and ended at a pair of barred doors. A solitary figure stood on watch to one side, heavily cloaked and thrown into sharp relief by the torch burning in a bracket on the wall behind him.

He turned towards them as they approached, exclamation quickly cut short by the quiet press of a calfskin pouch into his palm. Pockmarked face looking slightly nervous, he hurried them around the edge of the gatehouse and through a small postern that led to a large courtyard surrounded by buildings.

Thankfully, Aurane remained silent as Anaeryn led him through shadowed archways and across deserted cloisters, arriving eventually outside a stubby tower set a little apart from the other buildings.

Anaeryn tried the latch, surprised to feel it lift easily.

The room beyond was crowded and dusty, a large table occupying the centre, it and every other available surface covered with stacks of parchment and heavy tomes. A fire burned dimly in the grate on the far side of the chamber, the dozing figure of a squat white haired man slumped in a chair to one side.

Anaeryn settled opposite him, leaving Aurane to situate himself in a corner where he could keep an eye on both the entrance and the pair sat next to the fire.

‘Archmaester.’

The man in the chair jerked awake with a grunt, eyes darting wildly around the room before settling on Anaeryn.

‘It’s good to finally meet you, after so long with mere correspondence.’ Anaeryn said lightly.

A long moment of silence stretched out between the two.

‘My prince.’ The man breathed out slowly, rising, only to kneel before him and bow his head respectfully.

‘Please, archmaester, return to your seat. We have much to discuss.’

The man nodded, easing himself up from the floor.

‘Whatever Your Highness needs.’ The stout old man agreed gruffly.

‘Lord Dayne. Titles are dangerous things, archmaester.’

The man nodded agreeably, stretching back into his chair.

‘How did you know I’d returned?’

Anaeryn considered the man briefly.

‘You sailed on one of my ships. When you docked the captain sent word to me of your arrival. Oh, and your assistant, Jape, belongs to me.’

Archmaester Marwyn blinked slowly, bristly hair still wrinkled by sleep.

‘Jape?’ He asked. ‘But he’s been with me for years.’

‘Just over three, I believe.’ Anaeryn concurred. ‘Since the point at which my identity became known to you.’

‘You wanted a knife at my throat.’ Marwyn accused.

‘Of course.’ Anaeryn agreed pleasantly. ‘You’re very valuable and know too much. I hope you can agree to keep him with you; he’s become quite fond of you, and I was told he did excellent work when I hired him.’

The old man eyed him suspiciously from underneath beetled brows.

‘I suppose if I try to get rid of him then he’ll just be replaced with another of your men?’

‘I would imagine that to be the case.’

‘He’s been sending reports to you?’

‘Occasionally. I appreciated him corroborating your information.’

‘I’m sure.’ Marwyn frowned deeply. ‘Why are you here?’ He asked.

‘I am here because I wish to speak to you, and in the middle of the night because I do not want it known that I consort with suspected sorcerers.’

Marwyn huffed.

‘Suspected. Ha. If only they knew.’ He stood up and bent his keg-shaped body over the fire to set a dented copper kettle boiling.

‘I take it you want to know about…’ The man began continued, back turned.

‘Your travels, when I have the leisure.’ Anaeryn interjected, glancing briefly at Aurane. ‘But for know I would like to hear of Euron Greyjoy.’

The old man stiffened slightly.

‘Euron Greyjoy.’ He muttered. ‘So it’s true then, what the grey sheep are saying. He’s returned.’

Anaeryn inclined his head.

‘It is. You heard tell of him on your voyage?’

Marwyn snorted.

‘The man is notorious in all the port cities of Essos. There must be scarce a merchant cartel in the east that hasn’t suffered his depredations.’

Anaeryn eyed him intently.

‘But he was only one man. With one ship. How much damage could he truly do?’

Marwyn shrugged.

‘They say he cares not for plunder. That what he craves is carnage.’

‘And power, now, apparently.’ Anaeryn remarked. He couldn’t help but wonder whether Lord Balon still sat the Seastone chair. Euron Greyjoy did not strike him as the kind of man to take orders from the one who had ordered his banishment.

‘And magic.’ Marwyn added sombrely, looking at Aurane.

Anaeryn cocked an eyebrow.

‘Magic? You can speak freely.’

‘There were rumours in Volantis.’ Marwyn began after a lengthy pause where he prodded the fire. ‘They say he sailed upriver.’

‘Up the Rhoyne?’ Anaeryn asked curiously.

Marwyn nodded.

‘They say he spent months sailing the Sorrows, searching.’

‘He managed to escape the Volantene galleys and the greyscale?’

Marwyn smiled a terrible smile, revealing teeth stained the colour of blood.

‘There are worse things inhabiting the Sorrows and the ruins of Chroyane than greyscale.’ He said ominously. ‘Stone men and the spirits of long dead dragonlords trapped beneath the waters.’

‘And which of these delights do your informants report Euron to have been most interested in?’ Anaeryn inquired.

‘They were useless on that score.’ Marwyn growled. ‘But I’d wager he was after the secrets of the Rhoynar.’

_Of course, _Anaeryn thought. _The water wizards of Garin the Great, who managed hold the might of Old Valyria at bay. Well, for a time._

‘It would seem he was successful in his hunt. The survivors of his massacre in Ryamsport have all declared him to be a most fell sorcerer.’ Anaeryn noted drily.

‘What kind of sorcery?’ Marwyn asked bluntly, beetle black eyes now fixed upon him intently.

‘On that, they were less definite. They know that the dromonds holding station beyond the harbour disappeared without so much as a trace. No cries were heard, no lights seen. The watchtower that sits upon a cliff beyond the town lies in ruins, as if torn down by some great storm. They claim that the fires that destroyed Lord Redwyne’s fleet were unquenchable. They speak of great waves crashing to shore, of thunder rolling from a cloudless sky.’ He spread his hands in confusion. ‘I spoke to a number of the townsfolk and a dozen of the surviving sailors. There was little agreement, beyond the shared conviction that the Crow’s Eye has made a devilish pact with his Drowned God.’

He finished his tale and sat in silence as Marwyn drew the kettle from the flames and threw in a handful of herbs pungent enough to make his eyes water.

‘I know little of the Higher Mysteries of the Rhoynar.’ Marwyn said, pouring himself a cup of his thick, dark concoction after Anaeryn and Aurane had refused it. The Higher Mysteries were the label the maesters ascribed to the arts that resisted their study. Even Marwyn, an archmaester with the ring and rod and mask of his office to prove it, was something of an outsider. The other maesters treated him with deep suspicion, and his frequent disappearances and aggressive manner did little to encourage acolytes to seek him out for tutelage. Dreams of sorcery, of water wizards and blood mages and shadowbinders, were not nurtured by the Citadel.

‘There is a manuscript,’ he began, clearly deep in thought, ‘that I had chance to read when in Volantis. Those of the Old Blood guard their treasures from lost Valyria jealously, but the opportunity to show off their library to an archmaester of the Citadel proved too much for the Morrop clan. Amongst their scrolls was an account written by a minor noble of the Freehold, one Elinar Syrakal, telling of what we now call the Second Spice War.’

‘The war where Valyria slaughtered the Rhoynar to a man, and left Nymeria to fill her ten thousand ships with their widows and children.’

Marwyn nodded his bristly head.

‘Just so, my lord. But the Rhoynar were initially victorious, and their water wizards at the height of their powers.’

‘Indeed. And what did Lord Syrakal have to say of their sorceries?’

‘He claims to have been at Volon Therys when the wizards raised the waters of the Rhoyne into the sky and felled three full grown dragons. He claims they drew up waterspouts to overtop even the Hightower.’

‘Archmaester, all of this information is in the histories. Does your observer have anything to say that I cannot find on any merchant’s bookshelf?’

Marwyn frowned at his annoyance.

‘He does, my lord. He claims that the Rhoynar used voluntary sacrifice to fuel their spells. He declares that on the morning of the battle three and thirty flowered maidens flung themselves into the river to raise the wrath of Mother Rhoyne.’

‘Three and thirty?’

‘The number three was sacred to the peoples of the lower river, for it is beyond Sar Mell, which lies across the water from Volon Therys, that Mother Rhoyne splits herself into three. The delta created by these children of hers waters the fertile lands that were the breadbasket of the Rhoynar, and later, of the Freehold. In truth, the wars between the two were not, as some of my brethren claim, caused by spices or by turtles. They fought, quite simply, for food.’

Marwyn was fascinating, but Anaeryn was determined not to become distracted.

‘Sacrifices.’

‘Sacrifices.’ The man repeated. ‘The peoples of the Rhoyne had worshipped Mother Rhoyne for millennia, and Lord Syrakal claims that the river itself grew a particular attachment to them.’

‘So Euron Greyjoy is throwing virgins into the sea and his Drowned God takes their maidenheads and lives as payment for his wrath?’

Marwyn chuckled darkly.

‘I know not, my lord. But, if Euron Greyjoy has learned to harness such powers as Prince Garin’s wizards once wielded, then I fear much for Westeros.’

_Even without sorcery I fear for Westeros, _Anaeryn thought, _he has us greenlanders exactly as and where he wants us._

‘You have my gratitude for your information.’ Anaeryn told him_, little enough though it was._

Marwyn lowered his head.

‘Whatever my lord requires.’

‘What do you know of glass candles?’

‘Glass candles?’ Marwyn demanded, jerking upright.

‘The Lady Malora has managed to light one.’

Marwyn was unable to conceal his shock

‘You’ve seen this yourself, my lord?’

‘I have.’

‘The Citadel’s candles still sit waxen.’ The man muttered, taking a gulp of his peculiar drink. ‘What has she seen?’

‘Much, to hear her tell it. I imagine that you are aware of Lord Hightower having made me his heir. It was the future that Malora claims to have glimpsed in the candle’s flame that persuaded him to do so.’

‘I knew of the declaration. The grey sheep are bleating of little else. You know they’ve sent ravens to your maester at Starfall, demanding to know what kind of man you are?’

‘I didn’t, but I’m sure Maester Kelos will lead them a merry dance.’

‘You’re so sure of his loyalty?’

Anaeryn shrugged.

‘He knows who I am. He clearly hasn’t told the archmaesters, so he’s either my man, or playing a long game.’

Marwyn nodded brusquely.

‘You know your own business. Jape tells me that. But Malora… Malora is interesting.’

‘How so?’

‘The sorcerers of Valyria were said to use their candles to communicate with one another, to reach across mountain ranges and great seas and speak with their fellows half a world away. They were not tools of prophesy.’

Anaeryn felt his eyes narrow.

‘You’re sure?’

Marwyn showed his bloody teeth again.

‘The certainty of books is not the certainty of life, and the Higher Mysteries evade our comprehension more than any other branch of learning. But I have never heard of glass candles, even in the days of the Freehold, when one burned in every lonely outpost, illuminating the future.’

He paused, ruminating, before continuing in a low voice that had Aurane straining to hear.

‘It is your family, my lord, who were known for their visions of the future.’

‘Daenys the Dreamer.’ Anaeryn murmured, though he could not help but think, too, of his own strange dreams.

Marwyn nodded.

‘Your house has Hightower blood, but I know of no marriages the other way.’

Anaeryn shook his head.

‘Nor I, but the Hightowers have blood at least as ancient as the dragon.’

‘They do.’ Marwyn agreed. ‘House Hightower’s origins are long since lost to history, and they have always been insular. Mayhaps Malora carries a gift their line has passed down for millennia, or perhaps she is unique.’

‘Or mad.’ Anaeryn added. ‘As the smallfolk believe.’

Marwyn chuckled, a deep cough from the back of his throat.

‘The smallfolk are sometimes wiser than us all.’

‘Just so.’

The silence stretched between them, interrupted only but the gentle gutter of the fire in the grate.

‘Is that all you desire of me, my lord?’

Anaeryn looked at him with amusement.

‘Not quite. I would like you to travel to Starfall.’

Marwyn looked at him intently. ’And why would you want me to go to Starfall?’

He smiled.

‘Many reasons. I hope that you’ll find it an interesting place. There are records in the deep vaults that stretch back to long before the founding of the Citadel, even unto the time before the Hightower itself was raised.’ He paused, weighing his next words. ‘We both know that the other archmaesters are waiting impatiently for an opportunity to be rid of you. If you were to die now, then the turmoil of the Ironborn rebellion would make it unlikely that the city authorities would have much desire to investigate. Jape tells me that you do not have enough allies in the Citadel to rely upon them alone for your protection.’

‘You think my life is in danger?’ Marwyn’s voice was hard and unsurprised.

‘Perhaps, and I consider it too valuable to take a risk. I believe that Starfall is the safest, the wisest, destination for you to flee to.’

Hard black eyes drilled into his face for a long while.

‘Very well, my lord, I shall do as you suggest.’

‘I’m grateful. The ship that brought you here will take you. I would suggest that you leave with the morning tide.’

-

Work on the city’s defences proceeded rapidly. Lord Hightower’s great galleys had been anchored across the mouth of the Honeywine, where its waters emptied out into the Whispering Sound, their line anchored at either end by the massive bulk of Oldtown’s walls. During the night, thick lengths of chain connected the ships to one another, save for a single, heavily guarded gap through which a trickle of water traffic was allowed.

Anaeryn had taken up residence on _Honour of Oldtown_, the towering pride of Lord Leyton’s fleet. She alone dipped four hundred oars and more than two thousand oak trees had been felled for her construction. Her commander, Admiral Hess, had welcomed Anaeryn aboard with icy courtesy. The man might have resented his presence, but he clearly knew his business. Every morning he rose with the dawn and oversaw hours of drills where the fleet’s artillery flung great storms of rocks and bolts into the waters of the Sound. Most of _Honour_’s foredeck was taken up by a monstrous trebuchet, crouched and insect-like. The mass of its counterweight alone exceeded that of the smallest dromonds, and it could fling stones greater than the weight of a man further than a longbow of goldenheart could send an arrow.

‘How goes your… pontoon, my lord?’ Admiral Hess hesitated over the unfamiliar word, his tone barely on the polite side of scornful as he joined Anaeryn on deck.

‘The work progresses apace, admiral.’ Anaeryn declared cheerfully.

He’d commissioned a series of floating platforms from workshops in the city. Strings of barrels thickly covered in tar were lashed together, and a wooden deck built atop. Enough pontoons had been completed to extend a third of the way across the Sound a hundred yards in front of the line of Lord Leyton’s galleys. Anaeryn’s plan was to span the entire width with his floating bridge. It was to serve two functions. Its primary purpose was to stall any attempt to break through the line of dromonds with fireships. Just as the Hightower fleet stood in defence of the mass of blockaded merchant shipping, his barrier protected them. Anaeryn hoped also, however, that it would prove useful in another way.The Ironborn threat had reduced water traffic to almost nothing, and thus the roads of the Reach and the streets of Oldtown were filled to bursting with carts and wagons at all hours of the day and night. If his causeway proved broad and stable enough, then he hoped to relieve some of the pressure by diverting traffic away from the city and over the Sound.

‘Admiral!’

The two men looked up at the cry from the masthead.

‘The signal fires on the eastern bank have been lit.’

‘Ships approaching, then.’ Admiral Hess muttered, before looking at Anaeryn. ‘But are they the Ironborn’s, or yours, my lord?’

‘Mine, I suspect.’ Anaeryn told him calmly. ‘The Ironborn are unlikely to make an attack on the city in broad daylight, unfortunately.’

Admiral Hess grimaced, though he couldn’t disagree with the assessment.

‘We had best be prepared, nevertheless.’ He turned to one of his subordinates. ‘Order the fleet to battle stations.’

The young man’s eyes widened, but he saluted and ran off to wave a big blood red flag from _Honour_’s stern. Before long the air was filed with the rattle of drums from all along the line of ships as men were summoned from below. The chains that were released during the day and coiled up on deck were hastily stretched across the gaps between the ships in order to present a nigh on impenetrable barrier of seasoned timber and steel to the approaching fleet.

Anaeryn glanced back up the Honeywine to the Hightower just as a flag broke from a great pole that thrust out from one of its uppermost floors.

‘Green, Admiral.’

The commander of Lord Leyton’s fleet looked at him askance before turning abruptly to look up at the Hightower.

‘A shame I’ve roused the men for naught, then.’ He said, grinning.

From a height of more than eight hundred feet virtually the whole of the Sound, and long leagues of the Reach sprawled before the eyes of the lookouts posted atop the Hightower. Equipped with huge, and hugely expensive, far-eyes from Myr they would have been able to identify the incoming ships long before they came into view of the men aboard the vessels at the mouth of the Honeywine.

‘Stand down, Admiral?’ The man who’d waved the battle flag asked his master.

‘No.’ He snapped. ‘Leave the men at their stations.’ He glanced at Anaeryn. ‘It wouldn’t do to greet our allies without the proper show.’

-

‘They’re magnificent.’

Anaeryn forced back his smirk, keeping the far-eye pressed to his face. He could feel Admiral Hess shifting irritably in response to Loras’ admiration, but to his immense satisfaction the man remained silent beside him.

There were fewer ships than he’d hoped from Starfall, perhaps two score and ten in all, but with the mid-afternoon blazing down their sails glowed as they approached, formed into five immaculately dressed columns, with less than half a cable between each. Anaeryn knew that even single vessels arriving in the Sound would often furl their sails and manoeuvre with oars, wary of the uncertain winds and currents, but his own squadrons had great expanses of canvas flying even in close formation and with no sea room.

Admiral Hess remained silent as the columns of sword ships began to fold into one another with the narrowing of the water. Anaeryn knew that, even for his ships and crews and captains, to achieve such precision must have taken endless hours of practise on the journey from Starfall.

From across the water, the foremost ships now less than half a mile distant, came the faint sound of a trumpet.

Anaeryn couldn’t hide his grin at Admiral Hess’ poorly concealed awe when every ship in the approaching fleet took in its canvas and fell idle in the waves within the space of a few dozen heartbeats, their position relative to one another barely shifting an inch.


	8. Chapter 8

‘You asked for me, my lord?’

Anaeryn grinned and went forwards to embrace Admiral Luthor. The man who commanded Starfall’s fleet was a decade younger than Lord Leyton’s chief naval officer, fit and spare and vigorous where Admiral Hess was beginning to be worn thin by his responsibilities.

‘I did. You made excellent time getting here, even with the drills you must have been doing along the way.’

The admiral had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed, but when his display had been so effective at cutting Admiral Hess down to size Anaeryn was in no mood to complain.

‘Ser Gerold was most insistent that no time was to be wasted.’ Admiral Luthor told him. ‘So I chose not to wait in harbour for the patrolling squadrons to come in.’

‘You did right.’ Anaeryn confirmed. ‘Did you encounter any Ironborn?’

‘No, my lord. Perhaps a few sails on the horizon, but too faint to be sure.’

Anaeryn nodded, relieved. He had every faith in his ships and men, of course, but he didn’t relish the prospect of their being in danger, particularly with the situation as uncertain as it was.

‘Come, join me in my cabin.’ He invited, knowing he was snubbing Admiral Hess, but wanting to talk to Luthor in private.

The admiral followed him belowdecks to the spacious cabin he’d been allotted, letting out an impressed whistle at the expansive view of the great, sprawling city afforded by the huge windows. Clear panes of glass were incredibly costly, but many of the officers of the Hightower fleet were the sons of lords or wealthy knights and merchants, and no expense had been spared in the fitting out of their accommodation.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Anaeryn asked, grinning as he sat down in a well-upholstered chair.

‘It’s not very warlike.’ Admiral Luthor criticised, examining the furnishings.

‘No.’ Anaeryn agreed. ‘But then the Hightower fleet hasn’t seen a proper battle since the Dance of the Dragons, so I suppose we can forgive it some of its excesses.’

His chief naval commander looked unconvinced.

‘What’s the situation here, my lord?’ He asked curiously.

‘Complicated. At the moment the Ironborn seem content preying on easy targets and sneaking into harbours at night to destroy shipping. The Shields are being tested, but they hold firm according to the most recent reports. Major, fortified ports like Oldtown, Seaguard and Lannisport have so far escaped unscathed. The Ironborn can afford to ignore them. Even the combined naval strength they harbour wouldn’t be enough to pose a serious threat.’

Admiral Luthor nodded.

‘So, what do the Ironborn want?’

Anaeryn shrugged.

‘To throw off the greenlander shackles. To be free to raid and pillage as they once did. To rule the seas.’

‘Well, they have all that now.’ The admiral commented. ‘That’s a lot of shipping,’ he commented, nodding towards the carpet of merchant vessels filling Honeywine behind the protection of Lord Hightower’s galleys, ‘but they can’t stay there forever; most of the trading in the Seven Kingdoms happens by sea. The merchants will have to release their vessels eventually, Ironborn or no.’

‘I know. I’ve promised Lord Leyton some sword ships to lend to the guilds to transport particularly valuable cargoes, but as he says, they won’t have nearly enough capacity to really help the situation.’

‘What about convoys?’ Admiral Luthor suggested. ‘If we grouped, say, a hundred merchant ships together and sent them off with a squadron of warships as guards then it’s unlikely that an Ironborn raiding party would be strong enough to fight them, and even if they did, then they wouldn’t be able to capture all of the merchant vessels. The majority would be able to complete their voyage.’

Anaeryn nodded thoughtfully.

‘The idea has merit. I will bring it up with Lord Leyton when next I meet with him. I suspect the guilds will be less than impressed with the idea of having to sacrifice a few of their ships with every voyage, but they lose vessels to storms and pirates already, and will have to learn to endure the pain.’

-

The atmosphere in the city was stifling. The baking sun of the longest summer in living memory beat down on streets thronged at every hour of the day with carts full of the goods that could no longer travel by sea. The clamour was enormous, and as he looked down on it from a window several hundred feet up in the air, Anaeryn was grateful that he wasn’t trapped amongst the sweaty, heaving masses. He couldn’t help but feel excited, though, by the activity. The hum of hundreds of thousands of lives living next to one another. Oldtown was the oldest city in Westeros, one of the most ancient settlements in the world, and had silted up over thousands of years on the banks of the Honeywine, growing rich and powerful under the rule of House Hightower. Vast guildhalls and the palaces of merchant princes fronted onto the river; cliffs of carved stone and gilded statuary. Ranks of peach and pomegranate trees carpeted the broad streets with drifts of fragrant blossoms, and huge public fountains sparkled in large squares. Delicate, arching bridges crossed the canals that extended from the deep blue sprawl of the great river, and the spires of a thousand septs rose above the city. One day it would all be his. That day had not yet come, however, and Anaeryn made his way reluctantly to the large council chamber where he would be meeting with the merchants whose taxes paid for all the grandeur.

Lord Leyton had quickly retreated back to his rooms in the excitement of the wartime preparations, old and exhausted. Anaeryn, as his new heir, and in the absence of any Hightowers with administrative skill, had been forced to virtually take over the running of the city. Certainly, Lord Leyton had hugely competent men serving him; his seneschal and his steward both knew exactly what was going on, and could deal with the day-to-day management of the city in peacetime just as they had done for most of the preceding decade, but the city was on a war footing now. The great merchants were furious with the naval blockade, and refusing to deal with men they saw as little more than bookkeepers. Hence, Anaeryn was forced to meet with them every week in an attempt to cool their ire.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ He greeted pleasantly as he stepped through the doors held open by a pair of guards and walked to sit at the head of the long table. A few of them nodded at him with what looked almost like respect, but the majority of the acknowledgements were grudging at best. ‘What matters have we to discuss this afternoon?’

‘Ahem.’ A pot-bellied man with a completely bald head and big, liquid eyes cleared his throat. ‘My lord, I would like to ask why the city’s coopers have been unable to furnish me with a single barrel for the last half a turn?’

‘Certainly, Master Largewood.’ Anaeryn replied, as servants brought in trays of iced and sweetened lemon water. ‘They have been unable to supply you with your barrels as I have been requisitioning their entire production in order to facilitate the construction of my pontoon.’ He raised a hand before the man could respond. ‘I am delighted to be able to announce today that the pontoon has been completed. I am sorry for any inconvenience caused, but the coopers should be able to begin catering to your needs again from now on.’ He smiled at the man’s dubious nod. ‘Additionally, we have been testing the stability of the causeway, and believe that it should prove strong enough to carry a lane of oxcarts travelling in either direction over the Sound. In partial recompense for the frustrations caused by the blockade, I will be giving the guilds of the city a monopoly over the route, and placing no levy on the traffic.’

He smiled slightly as the men, quaffing down their drinks and sweating into their silks, mumbled with grudging approval.

‘The causeway will be available between dusk and dawn, but during the daylight hours we will be allowing water traffic through.’ He added. There were far fewer ships arriving and departing the city than there had been, but that still equated to dozens a day, even as the roving Ironborn picked off the choicest, fattest victims.

‘Can I ask what is being done to bring this… war… to a swift conclusion?’ A handsome man of middling years asked from midway down the table. He’d hesitated over the word ‘war’ and his lips twisted with apparent distaste, but Anaeryn knew that Triston Worthing was currently profiting huge sums from supplying the city watch with new uniforms and the fleet with sailcloth and cordage. He, perhaps more than anyone at the table, wanted the conflict to continue.

‘We have received news that Lord Stannis has taken ship from King’s Landing to Dragonstone, and will be with the Royal Fleet within the next few days.’ Anaeryn replied. ‘With fair fortune, he should be able to reach the western seaboard within the next two turns.’

He almost smirked when he saw Worthing’s lips flicker in a faint smile as most of the other men at the table exclaimed with dismay.

‘Two turns!’ Exclaimed Largewood, who was probably the wealthiest wine-trader in Oldtown. ‘My lord, if I cannot receive fresh shipments from the Arbor then the city will run dry within weeks!’

Anaeryn forced a frown of concern onto his face in response to the other man’s horror.

‘You have my deepest sympathies, Master Largewood. Lord Redwyne’s fleet of wine cogs has, I fear, suffered greatly from the the Ironborn’s depredations, and we have no way to make safe the sea lanes. I can tell you, however, that Lady Blackmont has promised ten thousand barrels of good vintage to the city. They will be transported from Starfall on sword ships over the next turn, and I hope will go some way to ensuring the city does not get too thirsty.’

‘Dornish swill!’ The man exclaimed loudly, slamming a hand down on the table, before blanching at Anaeryn’s coolly raised eyebrow. ‘My apologies, my lord,’ he muttered hastily, ‘I mean no offence to your homeland, of course, but the palettes of Oldtown are not so used to Dornish reds as they are to Arbor Gold.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Anaeryn acknowledged calmly, ‘but I hope that in the absence of Arbor Gold, Dornish swill might suffice temporarily.’ In truth, he could have sent sword ships to Vinetown almost as easily and safely as Starfall, but Lyarra Blackmont was a valuable supporter, and several hundred of her archers currently guarded Starfall. Shipping her wine to a wealthy city starved of the stuff would allow both of them to turn a healthy profit, as well as repay the favour he owed her.

‘My lord,’ an immensely fat man whose name Anaeryn didn’t know, but thought was a cloth merchant, interrupted. ‘I have a dozen vessels filled with YiTish silk and Myrish lace waiting in Planky Town for the threat to die down, but Prince Doran has impounded them! He is refusing to allow my men to disembark the cargoes to travel the overland routes without paying outrageous customs charges!’

Anaeryn frowned. The coast of southern Dorne was barren east of Starfall, and so the Ironborn threat would be having little enough effect on any Dornish nobles other than himself. It was very like Prince Doran to quietly attempt to take advantage of someone else’s catastrophe.

‘I will send a bird to the prince and see what arrangements can be made.’ Anaeryn replied, gratified to see the man’s nod of acceptance. He wondered whether reminding Prince Doran that having a dozen silk ships in harbour was something that Planky Town was unlikely to have seen in decades, and that their captains and crews would no doubt be spending large amounts of money in the town, and would spend significant sums more on camels and donkeys and guides to trek their goods across the desert, would be enough to sway the man.

His attention wandered as he sat, nodding patiently at the men as they listed their complaints and argued with one another. They could probably drag greater concessions from him if they presented a united front, he mused, but there was far too much rivalry between the various guilds for him to worry about that. His thoughts drifted to Ser Loras, and he couldn’t hold back the faint smile that touched his lips at the image of the gold-eyed youth. Mace Tyrell’s youngest son had returned to Highgarden to make a report to his father, though he had seemed reluctant to leave. Anaeryn wondered whether he would return, though there was no particular reason for him to. He eventually dragged his focus back to to the men at the table, grateful he’d had his undersecretary, Lenyl Sand, shipped to Oldtown as soon as he realised his stay was likely to be a lengthy one. The pale, skinny youth was not as knowledgable or as efficient as his personal secretary, but Jon Pimm was helping to run things in Starfall in his absence, and at least Lenyl’s penmanship was fast and legible as he took quiet notes in the corner of his master’s meetings.

-

‘It looks quiet in the city tonight.’ Gerold observed, surveying the glistening lights of the waterfront.

Anaeryn had moved into a luxuriously appointed set of rooms in the Hightower, and, realising that the vast fortress had no shortage of space, had quickly arranged for his companions to join him. His suite was only a few floors from the base of the tower, but still perched high above almost every other building in the city, and had a large south-facing terrace where he could dine with guests in balmy evening air scented by the ornamental blossoms that clung to the stonework.

‘It does.’ He replied to his friend, taking a sip of cool wine. He had entertained the bannermen of Lord Leyton’s who’d elected to stay in the city the previous night, and the great merchants the evening before, and so felt no guilt for enjoying a light meal with only his friends. Perros, Brienne and Aurane still sat at the candlelit table with Ser Joe, who’d been prevailed upon to take a goblet of wine with them after ensuring that guards were posted to the night shift, whilst Anaeryn and Gerold stood by the balustrade, looking out over the city and the Sound. ‘I think it was this evening that Ser Moryn was planning to set his newly trained watchmen loose on the city.’

Gerold smirked, his expression mocking in the faint light spilling from the nearest lamp.

‘I feel for the citizens.’

‘You feel for no-one.’ Anaeryn contradicted calmly, looking out towards the line of lanterns that marked the position of the Hightower fleet, and the faint, flickering torches on the pontoon beyond. The floating bridge would be filled with carts and wagons by this time, and crowded until dawn. Anaeryn had had to send men at arms to close the bridge the first few mornings it had been in operation when the merchants and their drivers had proved unwilling to keep to the time he’d allotted them.

‘That’s not true.’ Gerold protested. ‘I care for you, for Perros, even Aurane, although only the Seven know what you see in him.’

Anaeryn rolled his eyes.

‘I think he feels the same way about you.’

Gerold smirked and drained his cup of water.

‘I’m sure he does.’ He frowned, looking somewhere over Anaeryn’s shoulder. ‘What’s that?’

Anaeryn turned and frowned, too, as he saw a blob of orange in the distance that seemed too large to be a light in the city. Only the full moon and the great watchfire atop the Hightower, currently crackling several hundred feet above their heads, were that bright in the nights of Oldtown.

‘It’s a fire.’ Anaeryn said slowly, examining the glow, which seemed to be near the main western gate into the city, perhaps two miles distant from where they stood. They watched for a few minutes as the orange smear flickered before spreading slightly. The bells of the city’s septs began to ring the Hour of the Eel.

‘Warm work for Ser Moryn’s novices.’ Gerold commented, grinning.

‘Yes…’ Anaeryn began, before breaking off as his eyes caught on another patch of flames. ‘There’s another one.’ He commented, frowning.

‘Do you think…’ Gerold started to say.

‘Ferryon!’ Anaeryn shouted, striding across the terrace, past his confused-looking companions.

‘My lord?’ Ser Joe asked from the table, rising.

‘Come with me, all of you.’

Anaeryn carried on through the expansive sprawl of his apartments, the party at the table hastening after him as Ferryon hurried in, looking sleepy.

‘My armour, now.’ Anaeryn instructed. The boy blinked at him slowly a couple of times, before nodding and rushing off as Anaeryn yanked open the door to his rooms, startling the two guards standing in the corridor outside. He ignored the door to the cage-machine, heading instead for the main stairwell and hastening down the steps until he reached one of the big guard chambers just above the enormous entrance hall of the tower.

There were half a dozen or so men sat at a large table in the centre of the room, playing dice in the grimy glow of a couple of cheap candles. Scores more slept in cots lining the walls.

‘My lord!’ Exclaimed one of the players, seeing him enter.

Anaeryn ignored their greetings and hasty salutes as they staggered to their feet.

‘I need messages sent to the city gates.’ He said, holding up a hand for silence. ‘Use the couriers’ horses. The captains of the watch are to close all of the gates. I want the city locked down. Go.’

The men had clearly imbibed some considerable amount of wine, but they were the personal guards of House Hightower rather than the city watch, and were disciplined enough to overcome their momentary stupor.

‘Of course, my lord.’ Their sergeant said after a couple of seconds. ‘Brenn, wake everyone up, the rest of you, come with me.’

The guards were just leaving the chamber when Gerold pushed past them in the entryway.

‘The city is under attack.’ He announced in a loud voice. Cries of alarm were immediately to be heard from the men stirring from sleep all around them.

‘Go!’ Anaeryn shouted to the men still milling in the doorway.

‘Ser Joe. Wake my guards, and double the number protecting Anara. Have Ferryon bring my armour to the entrance hall.’

Ser Joe saluted crisply and sprinted off.

‘What have you seen, Gerold?’ Anaeryn asked as he led his remaining companions from the room and continued down the staircase.

‘More fires in the city. A string of them in the west, and another in the east. Nothing upriver, or in the direction of the harbour, that I could see.’

Anaeryn cursed internally. It was around the harbour, on the south side of the city, that their defences were by far the strongest, because that was where they’d anticipated any attack coming from. Euron, if it was Euron, had caught them off-guard again.

When the reached the cavernous space of the entrance hall they found dozens of Hightower-liveried guards and servants milling around.

‘Where’s Ser Tarrant?’ Anaeryn demanded of the nearest guardsman.

‘I don’t know, my lord.’ He said respectfully. ‘Do you know what’s happenin’?’

‘Not yet.’ Anaeryn replied grimly. ‘Find your sergeants, rouse your fellows, and form up on the parade ground!’ He shouted to the men around him, and watched as discipline slowly took hold over their milling ranks.

‘Do we know where Ser Moryn is?’ Gerold asked.

Anaeryn shook his head.

‘No. He’s likely to have been with one of the city patrols; he could be anywhere. We need to know what’s going on.’

As if in answer to his words, they heard a faint clatter of hooves before someone began pounding on the great doors of the Hightower.

‘Open them.’ Anaeryn ordered.

The huge slabs of bronze slowly swung wide to reveal a single thin man, covered in sweat, hand clutching the reins of an equally lathered horse.

‘My lord!’ He called desperately as soon as he caught sight of Anaeryn. ’The Ironborn are setting fire to the city!’

A few cursed exclamations rose from those present.

‘They’re inside the city?’ Aurane exclaimed, asking what Anaeryn thought was a particularly unnecessary question.

‘Yes, my lord.’ The messenger responded.

‘I need the tocsin sounded.’ Anaeryn ordered. ‘You, have the bells here rung, and you, ride to the Starry Sept.’ The two men he’d singled out nodded and rushed off towards the stables.

‘Where have you come from?’ Anaeryn asked the messenger.

‘The Sunset Gate, my lord.’ He replied. ‘We saw a fire start up on the Street of Tyrras, and the captain of the gate sent a group of men to help put it out, but the warehouse was swarming with Ironborn buggers when we got there, begging your pardon, my lord, and only two of us escaped them. My captain ordered me to come here. He’s closed the gate, and said he’d hold it, come what may.’

Anaeryn nodded to himself. He didn’t know the man who captained the Sunset Gate by night, but he clearly knew his business. They’d been forced to allow the city gates to stay open during the night, for the naval blockade meant that Oldtown was being supplied almost entirely by land and hundreds of wagons rolled in during the dark hours.

‘My lord!’

‘Ser Tarrant.’ Anaeryn greeted, relieved to see the commander of the Hightower household guards striding across the great hallway towards him.

‘The Ironborn?’

‘Yes.’ Anaeryn confirmed, watching the man’s stern face harden in the flickering torchlight.

‘What are your orders, my lord?’

A combination of relief and uncomfortable pressure settled over Anaeryn at the words. If Ser Tarrant was giving himself over to his direction then it meant the defence of the city was his to command. Only Ser Garth and Ser Moryn would have the authority to challenge him now. The latter was likely lost somewhere in the city with the patrols, whilst his uncle was not a man well-suited to high strategy.

‘Parade your men, Ser Tarrant. I will have orders for them shortly.’ Anaeryn said at last, needing time to think. Thankfully, the man merely saluted and strode down towards the large, paved courtyard that sprawled between the causeway connecting Battle Island to the city and the Hightower itself.

His companions knew him too well to interrupt him, but he could feel their stares boring into him as he stood there in the shadow of the immense gateway, high above the burning city. The bells of Oldtown’s septs were all ringing out their alarm now, and Anaeryn could sense the anxiety of the Hightower men at arms steadily forming ranks on the dimly-lit parade ground below.

‘The fires are a distraction.’ He began slowly, pausing and trying to make sure there were no flaws to his reasoning. Ser Joe clanked up to stand beside him, and Anaeryn suddenly found himself surrounded by dozens of his own guards in their black-enamelled plate. Their collective, solid presence reassured him.

‘Here, my lord.’ Ferryon said, pushing through the throng accompanied by Anaeryn’s two body servants. Between the three of them they carried his own armour, hastily removed from its stand in his chambers.

‘A distraction?’ Gerold repeated, prompting him as Anaeryn stripped off his fine velvet doublet and breeches, allowing Ferryon to pull the tunic of layered raw silk that would sit beneath his plate over his head.

‘Yes.’ Anaeryn said, glancing round his guards. ‘Tobias! Go to the stables and have the grooms bring our mounts. If they claim to be helping Ser Tarrant, then my orders take precedence.’

The pale-faced young man, whom Anaeryn knew was barely a year older than himself, saluted briskly before running down the steps.

‘A distraction from what, my lord?’ Ser Joe asked politely.

‘An attack from the water, what else?’ Anaeryn asked, lifting his arms to allow Ferryon to begin fixing his cuirass into place.

Ser Joe nodded, but Gerold was frowning, even as his own squire rushed to his side clutching a sack with his own armour.

‘But the city watch will deal with the fires and the Ironborn in the city.’ He protested. ‘None of the harbour defences are likely to be drawn on.’

Anaeryn nodded.

‘Which is why the fires will be part of something else. Something that will weaken the harbour.’ _Shit. That’s it. _He realised suddenly, snatching his gauntlets from one of the servants and strapping them into place himself as Ferryon fumbled with his greaves.

‘They’ll be aiming to take the harbour walls from inside the city.’ Anaeryn declared, with a certainty he both feared and doubted. ‘They’re well-manned, but will be unprepared for an attack from the rear.’ _Quite apart from that, the commanders of those sections of the walls are likely to have sent men into the city to help fight the flames._

‘And if they take the walls…’ Gerold began.

‘Then they can turn their artillery directly against the sword ships and galleys guarding the city.’ Anaeryn finished, waiting impatiently for Ferryon to finish buckling on his sword belt. The trebuchets mounted on their bastions along the city’s immense walls dwarfed even the one that filled _Honour of Oldtown_’s foredeck. The trunks of oak trees hundreds of years old had been used to provide their spars and each required a crew of fifty men to operate. If they could be turned on the vessels defending the harbour… well, the Ironborn oars would barely need to pause in their stroke as they nudged past the flotsam.

‘Anaeryn!’

Anaeryn turned from his contemplation of the orange patches of flame now dotting the city’s immense sprawl.

‘Uncle.’ He greeted shortly, noting that Ser Garth was fully armed and armoured, save for the helm and shield clutched by the squire trailing him.

‘The city is under attack!’

‘Indeed.’ Anaeryn agreed, continuing before his uncle could respond. ‘It is my opinion that the Ironborn are aiming to gain control of the harbour walls from the inside.’

Ser Garth nodded immediately.

‘We must aid the watch with all of our strength!’

Anaeryn felt a trickle of relief at his uncle’s agreement.

‘We must gain, or regain, control of the walls before the artillery can be turned on the fleet. I suggest that we split the forces we have available into two, leaving Ser Tarrant enough men to hold the causeway. I will lead one half to the eastern side of the Sound, and you the second half to the western side.’

‘I have the further to go, then.’ Ser Garth observed, frowning.

‘You do.’ Anaeryn admitted. ‘However, _Spindrift _and _Waterdancer _are currently moored against the first gatehouse. They will be able to transport you and your men across the Honeywine and to the base of the western wall before the glass turns again if you embark quickly.’ He held up a hand to stifle Ser Garth’s protests, impatience forcing his impoliteness. ‘The majority of my guards have mounts in the stables. The majority of the Hightower household guards do not. Mounted, we will reach the eastern wall in half the time it would take a man on foot in plate. Sailing across the river, your men will reach the western wall more quickly and more rested than even mounted men could.’

Anaeryn stood, jaw clenched as he waited for Ser Garth to process the reasoning. He needed the man to agree. He didn’t truly give a shit about who got the boats and who got the horses, but he wanted his uncle’s contingent conveyed directly to where they were needed. If he let the man lead troops through the city he knew Ser Garth was more than likely to chase off after the first Ironborn he saw, or to stop and attempt to help put out a fire somewhere. For now, as far as Anaeryn was concerned, the city could burn. They had more important things to deal with.

It was with a sense of relief that he watched Ser Garth nod eventually.

‘I will go.’ He declared, turning without another word and striding down the steps towards the companies of guards steadily dressing ranks.

‘Well played.’ Ser Joe commented quietly from beside Anaeryn, giving him a small smile.

Anaeryn returned the expression, before setting off after his uncle. He held up a hand when Aurane and Perros made to follow.

‘No. The two of you aren’t armoured.’ He said. ‘And it will take too long for you to don your plate.’

Aurane flushed indignantly.

‘But I can fight! You’ll need every sword you can get to hold the walls!’

‘I’m not willing to risk either of you.’ He stifled Aurane’s further protests with a hard stare. ‘You would be a distraction, a dangerous distraction. I suggest the two of you find your armour and join in the defence of the causeway.’

Both Perros and Aurane looked upset. It was understandable; their blood was up, and they all knew that the well-defended causeway was unlikely to be threatened unless the fighting in the city and the harbour was lost. Eventually, however, they both bowed their heads obediently.


	9. Chapter 9

A hundred swords. That was all he had, against the Seven knew how many Ironborn. Anaeryn’s own guards accounted for half of that number. He’d only brought a couple of dozen horses aboard his vessels for the tourney, and most of those had belonged to his retinue of minor nobles and landed knights, all of whom had since returned to their own holdings in Dorne. Fortunately, Gerold had had the foresight to order the grooms at Starfall to bring a string of cavalry mounts through the mountain passes to Oldtown when he’d been organising the dispatch of the fleet. All of Anaeryn’s guards could now be set ahorse, with a reasonable number of spares. The Hightower household guard numbered some four hundred men, but only fifty were trained in mounted combat.

He had no idea of the odds against them, but Anaeryn couldn’t hold back the thrill of excitement that ran through him as the gleaming portcullises clanked up in front of them and he led his column down the broad causeway over the river, four hundred steel-shod hooves striking sparks from the flagstones as they rode into the burning city.

They found a crowd of terrified smallfolk clustered in the square at the end of the bridge. They drew back from the gatehouse to allow the armoured cavalry past, a few even raising a thin cheer at the sight.

Anaeryn ignored them, and nudged an eager Aella into a canter. He felt Ser Joe, Gerold and Brienne accelerate to keep pace with him, and heard the cacophony of hooves behind him grow louder. The street that ran along the waterfront was deserted. The houses and shops that lined it were shuttered up and silent, cowering under the weight of the alarm bells tolling over the city. The emptiness was almost oppressive enough to make Anaeryn doubt himself, to make him wonder whether he was chasing off in completely the wrong direction. He could hear the faint cries in the distance beneath the sound of the bells as the city watch and the smallfolk fought the flames hundreds of yards to the east.

All seemed quiet on the water, too. The lanterns at the mastheads of the dromonds defending the Sound glowed steadily in a neat line against the dark sky. Anaeryn knew that somewhere out there Spindrift and Waterdancer were making their way across the Honeywine with Ser Garth and two hundred plate-armoured foot aboard, taking advantage of the same breeze that was no doubt fanning the flames of the Ironborn fires.

Eventually, the bulk of the city wall came into view: an enormous, buttressed stone rampart that jutted out into the waters of the Honeywine, marking the end of the river and the start of the Whispering Sound. Anaeryn, the visor of his helmet still raised, could see the skeletal outline of a massive trebuchet atop the towering bastion, and the dull gleam of the steel chains that stretched from the shore to the deck of the nearest warship.

There seemed to be little indication of disturbance. Iron braziers and torches glowed gently atop the wall and no clash of arms was audible. There was a notable absence of men, however, and a prickle of fear made its way down the back of Anaeryn’s neck. The wide street turned sharply at the end to run along the inside of the wall, and as Aella made the turn the reason for the reason for that absence became clear.

The wall was under siege. A huge crowd of what Anaeryn knew must be Ironborn was massed against one of the shallow ramps that allowed oxcarts full of supplies to reach the top of the wall.

‘My lord! Allow the lancers the front rank!’

Anaeryn turned to Ser Joe and nodded reluctantly, apparently much to the other man’s relief. Out of their company, only a couple of dozen of the Hightower guards had managed to equip themselves with lances before Anaeryn had ordered the column out. As much as he desired to lead the charge, Anaeryn knew the impact that heavy war lances, each one fourteen feet of fire-hardened ash tipped with a razor-edged steel spike, could have upon unprepared infantry.

Ser Joe’s terse commands quickly split the ranks of Dayne guardsmen following them and allowed the lancers through. House Hightower was immensely wealthy, and clearly spared no expense in the outfitting of its guards. Anaeryn knew that none of the men were Sers, but they were all mounted on huge destriers that dwarfed his own men’s Dornish warhorses. Both men and horses were clad in full suits of castle-forged steel, armour that few enough landed knights could afford. Their sergeant was the only man without his narrow-slitted visor locked into place, and he waited on his horse just in front of Anaeryn as his faceless men trotted past and formed two neat ranks a dozen horses wide across the broad thoroughfare stretching before them.

‘Ready, my lord.’ He said politely.

The Ironborn, apparently focused on the knot of grey-cloaked watchmen attempting to hold the ramp, hadn’t noticed their arrival. It was an advantage Anaeryn was loath to give up.

‘Lead your men from the front, sergeant. The Ironborn will be aware of our presence soon enough, but we will not shout to warn them.’

The man nodded and flicked down his visor. He forced his massive chestnut stallion into the front rank of his men and, in an impressive display of strength, raised his lance above his head. Anaeryn felt half a dozen frantic heartbeats pulse by before the lance dropped and the stallion jerked into motion. The sergeant’s men seemed to have got the message, for they released no cry as they surged after their leader.

Aella barely needed to be prodded before she was galloping after the Reachmen. Anaeryn dropped his own visor and drew his sword. The thunder of hooves rang off the street, echoing deafeningly against the confines of the city wall on one side and the big stone warehouses on the other. Anaeryn could hardly believe that they managed to close the distance to less than a hundred yards before the Ironborn seemed to become aware of their presence. He assumed that the sudden flurry of panicked movement he could see engulfing their ranks was accompanied by cries of alarm, but could hear nothing above the sound of hooves and his own exhilarated breaths inside his padded helm.

Both ranks of lancers had lowered their weapons now, and the great mass of steel and horseflesh in front of Anaeryn seemed to gather an inexorable momentum. Just before the contact came, he heard the Ironborn, shouting and swearing and trying desperately to turn to face them. They were much too late.

The heavy cavalry tore through the confused crowd as though it were wet parchment. Anaeryn saw one of the riders fall, but suspected that it was more due to the man’s inability to absorb the impact of his own charge than any blow of the enemy’s. Anaeryn found Aella slowing to a canter as she danced her way over the bodies of the fallen. The lancers ahead of him had to abandon their weapons as they became impaled on victims or simply torn from the hands of their owners. The Ironborn, however, were already reeling as the Reachmen drew swords and battleaxes and war hammers, their great destriers kicking viciously around them. The Ironborn were on foot, and had only small shields and mail shirts to defend themselves against the onslaught. Anaeryn almost pitied them as Aella at last reached a knot of still-standing foes. His mount didn’t have the raw size or strength of the horses bred on the vast, fertile plains of the Reach, but she was fast and violent and superbly trained, dancing away from blows and darting in to bite at exposed limbs.

The Ironborn fought hard, with the strength of men who expected no quarter, but their spirit had been broken. They were sailors, raiders, men on foot in coats of poor chain mail standing against cavalry in castle-forged steel trained for field combat. For every rider who went down, a dozen Ironborn fell. A group of city watchmen, who had been struggling to hold the wall under the onslaught, were now shoving their way down the shallow ramp, jabbing past small shields with long spears. Anaeryn found himself once more with no enemy within reach of his sword as Brienne shouldered her way past him, her morning star whirling. He watched as an Ironborn warrior stumbled off the edge of the ramp and fell thirty feet onto his fellows below.

It was bloody, exhausting work. Cavalry charges were designed to break enemy ranks, to send weakened formations fleeing from the field, but the Ironborn had nowhere to run. Anaeryn could see Aella’s hooves flicking up droplets of blood from the pools of the stuff draining onto the paving. He leant down in his saddle to slip his sword into the throat of a man he could see stirring amongst the corpses that surrounded him. The foremost Reachmen had cut their way entirely through the mass of Ironborn and turned back around to continue their butchery.

Anaeryn jerked back instinctively when the man he’d been aiming Aella at stiffened in place in front of him, blood that was almost black in the torchlight bursting from his mouth. Before he fell, Anaeryn caught a glimpse of dull metal fletching at his neck.

‘Cease firing!’ He shouted, yanking his visor up and waving his sword wildly at the pair of crossbowmen he could see crouched on top of the wall, winding back their weapons. He wasn’t quite sure how the two men heard him, but they froze in their movements, staring down at him. Anaeryn swung round his shield so that the sword and falling star of House Dayne were visible to the pair, and watched with faint amusement as the two of them hastily dropped their weapons. In truth, the quarrel that killed the Ironborn had been an excellent shot, but from such close range a crossbow bolt would have little difficulty punching through even a suit of plate, and with his cavalry so intermingled with the Ironborn he was reluctant to take the risk of further shots going astray.

‘My lord, they’re trying to escape.’

Anaeryn turned to Ser Joe, before glancing along the street. Perhaps eighty Ironborn were still on their feet and in a state fit to flee. The rearmost, furthest away from the press of combat, were beginning to turn and run. Anaeryn surveyed the scene for a few moments.

‘Give orders to the Hightower sergeant to hunt them down. Make it clear he is only to kill, and not get distracted by the fires.’

‘Yes, my lord, and your guards?’

‘Will stay with me.’

Ser Joe saluted and rode off, shouting orders. Anaeryn pressed his knees into Aella’s flanks and turned her towards the wall. She picked her way carefully up the shallow ramp, bundled with corpses that were being unceremoniously thrown onto the street below. A score of spearmen in smoke grey cloaks pressed hastily to either side to let him past as he reached the top.

Gerold and Brienne came up to flank him as he made his way onto the broad, cut-stone walkway that ran behind the parapet, and the three of them trotted together back towards the Honeywine.

‘I see nothing, my lord.’

Anaeryn had to force back the reprimand that rose through force of habit to his lips. He had fought with Brienne for years over how she addressed him, but even now it was only either amongst friends or deep into her cups that she would call him by his given name. Only Gerold and himself were within earshot, but the gravity of the situation seemed to have prompted her formality.

‘No.’ He agreed eventually, frowning as he surveyed the Sound from the top of the great bastion that extended into the water. He turned Aella and trotted her around the frame of the monstrous trebuchet perched atop the rampart. The walls of the city, although immense, did not afford him the view of Oldtown he enjoyed from the terrace of his suite in the Hightower. He could see the flames of a few fires nearby, hear the continued tolling of the bells now that the clangour of combat had died down, but could glean nothing of the situation in more distant parts of the city.

‘What now?’ Gerold asked, having nudged his big chestnut mare over to join him.

‘I don’t know.’ Anaeryn admitted, staring across the mouth of the river towards where Ser Garth should currently be stopping the Ironborn from gaining control of his own stretch of wall. It was a futile effort: the Honeywine was nearly half a mile wide where it opened out into the Sound, and it was the darkest hour of the night. He could see nothing. The lanterns aboard the blockading dromonds that stretched between the two great stone ramparts shone steadily, but Anaeryn frowned as he stared down at them.

‘The line has slackened.’ Gerold observed.

‘Yes.’ Anaeryn agreed shortly. ‘More than that, it’s slackened in the wrong direction.’

‘What do you mean, my lord?’ Brienne asked, staring at him, confusion in her voice.

‘The tide should be going out at the moment.’ Anaeryn explained. ‘The dromonds should be well enough anchored and secured to one another to hold their stations, but if they were going to drift then they should be being pulled down the Sound.’

‘They’re not.’ Gerold said.

No. Anaeryn thought to himself, examining the shallow crescent of lanterns that stretched before his eyes. He guessed that the dromonds in the centre of the line were perhaps a hundred yards further back than the vessel floating immediately next to the stone rampart he stood on. There seemed to be no alarm aboard any of the ships that he could detect, although they had clearly all been roused to battle stations by the alarm bells ringing across the city.

‘The wall is secured, my lord. The city watch are returning to their stations and Sergeant Hardcastle is hunting the city for Ironborn.’

Anaeryn turned reluctantly away from the water and towards Ser Joe, who looked neat and entirely unbloodied as he sat before him on his mount, helmet under one arm. Anaeryn could see companies of smoke-cloaked watchmen moving in the torchlight behind him, returning to man their siege engines.

‘Excellent. We must pray that Ser Garth has been equally successful on the other side of…’

Anaeryn broke off, shivering. An icy wind clawed at his cheek, blowing his hair into his eyes and whistling through the slit of his raised visor. Aella stamped and snorted, turning her rear to the sudden chill from the water. Anaeryn nudged her back around with his knees, narrowing his eyes and clenching his teeth as the gust failed to dissipate, instead steadying and strengthening.

He could see nothing, but the wind continued and he thought he had never felt anything so cold.

‘My lord!’ Brienne exclaimed. Anaeryn wasn’t sure whether she was seeking reassurance or trying to reassure.

‘Strange.’ Anaeryn murmured to himself through suddenly dry lips. The torches that lined the rampart were guttering.

‘Salt.’ Ser Joe said suddenly. ‘It smells like salt.’

The torches went out.

Anaeryn heard cries of alarm rising in the sudden dimness, the iron braziers sitting sheltered behind the crenels now the main source of illumination.

Anaeryn could smell the salt too, even taste it on the frozen air rushing past. The great trebuchet they stood beneath creaked ominously above their heads.

‘My lord, look!’ Brienne exclaimed. Anaeryn could barely see her extended arm, but he followed its pale outline up the Honeywine to a point in the sky high above the city. The great watchfire that burned atop the Hightower normally shone steadily, a frail second sun in the nights of Oldtown, but now it was streaming like a snapping orange pennant, blown by the icy southern wind.

‘It’s going to go out.’ Gerold declared, staring at it intently.

Within a few heartbeats, his prediction came true, and those gathered on the wall watched as the immense flame rippled out of existence. The men of the city watch exclaimed with dismay.

‘Never, my lord!’ One of them called out. ‘It’s never gone out before!’

Anaeryn felt out of his depth, surrounded by an alien darkness and the shadowy figures of hundreds of lives all looking to him for orders and answers.

Wordlessly, he swung himself from Aella’s saddle and walked over to the part of the parapet looking out across the line of dromonds. They displayed fewer lights now, but the lanterns at each masthead, heavily shielded by cages wrought of brass and glass, designed to burn in the middle of a storm at sea, glowed on. He noted that the line had curved further still. Its centre was perhaps now a full cable’s length upriver. The ships beneath those lanterns must be in danger of brushing up against the southernmost point of Battle Isle, Anaeryn thought.

He looked downstream, and was surprised to see the torches along his pontoon still burning. The floating causeway itself seemed to be resisting the strange wind and current more effectively than the string of warships. He could sense his companions and his midnight-armoured guards shifting behind him, staring at him as they shivered in the bitter chill. Anaeryn couldn’t take his eyes away, though, for some reason, from the neat, straight line of the illuminated pontoon shining in the darkness. He held up a hand for silence as he felt someone, he thought perhaps Gerold from the tread, come to stand by his shoulder.

The icy wind began to fall away, but the warmth it had leached from the heavy summer air failed to return. Anaeryn’s breath misted faintly in front of him as he gazed across the water.

‘Fuck me.’

He didn’t recognise the voice, but couldn’t disagree with it. Those gathered on the wall watched, transfixed, as the glowing line of the pontoon buckled before their eyes, flung up into the air. The torches that outlined its length winked out. Anaeryn had barely absorbed the sight before his steel-shielded ears were filled with a hollow roar. A great, writhing mass roiled before him in the darkness, emerging from the night.

What must have been half the water in the Whispering Sound rose like a cliff in front of the gazers on the wall. Anaeryn instinctively tightened his hold on Aella’s reins and gripped the crenel in front of him with his other arm. Barely had he done so before his world was filled with water. It was warmer than the air it replaced, he noted to himself with a strange sense of detachment, even as his body jerked and strained against the crushing weight and pull of the immense wave. He clung as desperately as he could to the reassuring stone strength of the parapet, but eventually his gauntlet-encumbered fingers slipped and he was yanked backwards, Aella’s reins jerking from his grasp.

He opened his hastily shut mouth to cry out, and found it filled with a froth of seawater. He staggered and choked, struggling to keep his feet against the pull. The water had rolled by now, though, and he found that he could take a breath of freezing air, although it stung like a thousand needles as it entered his lungs. He blinked, eyes streaming, and looked about as water sloshed around his ankles. It didn’t look as though anyone had been swept from the wall, thankfully. The bastion they stood on had a tall parapet all the way around, and it was probably the only thing that had prevented scores of casualties amongst his guards and the men of the watch. As it was, he could see piles of black armoured and grey-cloaked forms stirring and moaning, moving hastily away from the splintered barrels of pitch that had been thrown about and were releasing their sticky contents onto the wet stone. He was relieved to see Aella snorting with annoyance as she jerked her way back to her feet and trotted in a circle, tossing water from her mane.

‘My lord, are you injured?’

‘I’m fine.’ Anaeryn assured Brienne. Her helmet had been wrenched completely off by the force of the water, and she stood, bedraggled and panting before him, viciously spiked morning star still held tightly in her grip. Anaeryn walked back over to the parapet, cold water streaming from the joints in his armour and squelching uncomfortably in his boots.

It was difficult to tell the extent of the devastation, for almost every light on the water had been extinguished. There was no sign of the barrier of huge, proud dromonds that had guarded the approach to the city. Anaeryn could see a few dozen links of the great steel chains that had bound the nearest warship to the shore dangling down limply from where they were bolted to the stone of the rampart. 

‘My lord?’

Anaeryn turned to Ser Joe, and felt the fear in the pit of his stomach double at the sight of the normally imperturbable man. The captain of his guards was pale in the faint light of the moon and the burning city. His dark hair was plastered to his face and his ice blue eyes were wide and worried. Anaeryn had no answer to his question. This was sorcery of a power that only existed in ancient tales, of a strength and magnitude he could barely imagine. Anaeryn could light a dozen candles with a wave of his hand or summon a ledger from the far side of his solar without having to rise from his seat, but this… this was the mighty magic of the Rhoynar, or else the wrath of the Drowned God raised at the behest of his children.

‘We have the walls.’ He said at last, almost to himself, cursing the uncertainty he heard in his voice. ‘The wave has cleared the water of our forces, but the Ironborn will not have so easy an approach as they desire.’ He turned away from the water, searching for the commander of the company of the watch who had charge of that section of the city wall. None of the watchmen nearby seemed to be wearing an officer’s uniform, however.

‘Ser Joe. You have charge of the wall. Find out where the nearest dry supplies are, and have the braziers relit and fresh barrels of pitch brought up. We must expect the Ironborn to press the attack imminently.’

The man seem to rally and saluted, wading off.

‘And us?’ Gerold asked, looking intent. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Back to the Hightower.’ Anaeryn replied, touched in spite of himself that Gerold had attached himself to his side. Brienne said nothing but stepped closer, clearly equally unwilling to be left behind.

‘My horse is dead.’

Anaeryn looked past Gerold to the slumped form of his friend’s chestnut mare. He could just about make out the dark blood spilling from her opened throat, mixing with the water and the pitch pooled atop the wall.

‘Broken leg.’ Gerold replied shortly to Anaeryn’s raised eyebrow.

Anaeryn nodded and clasped his friend’s shoulder sympathetically. Brienne had caught her own mount and Aella had wandered her way over to them.

‘Come, we’ll find you a spare.’ Anaeryn said, grasping Aella’s reins and leading her on foot along the wall. He examined her form and step carefully for any sign of injury as they made their way to the ramp, but to his relief could detect nothing amiss.

They found a couple of men looking over the mounts of Anaeryn’s guards on the sodden street below. The wall and the distance from the water seem to have sheltered it from the worst of the onslaught, but the horses were whickering uncertainly and the pair of guardsmen looked unnerved. Gerold quickly extracted a mount that looked remarkably similar to her deceased predecessor.

‘My lord! We’re to go with you.’

Anaeryn turned and raised an eyebrow. The tall woman who’d addressed him stared back steadily. He could sense Brienne shifting uncomfortably behind him. But then, Eleyne Sand had always made Brienne uneasy. The Dornish woman had been one of the first members of Anaeryn’s guard, and was as deadly with the spear as any Anaeryn had ever met. She was also beautiful, and had never taken much effort to conceal her interest in Anaeryn, which he thought privately was far more likely to be the source of Brienne’s jealousy than the other woman’s martial prowess. She was accompanied by another half dozen members of Anaeryn guard. He didn’t need to ask to know that Ser Joe had sent them hurrying after their master.

‘Very well.’ He accepted graciously. ‘Find your mounts.’

Anaeryn noted Brienne’s expression as Eleyne launched herself onto the back of a dust-coloured sand steed with liquid ease. Brienne was a highly proficient horsewoman, but Eleyne had clearly been born to ride, and he couldn’t deny that her lithe form perched atop an equally delicate mount made Brienne look somewhat lumpen by comparison.

He banished such thoughts from his head as the last of the guards found their saddle, and nudged Aella into a steady canter up the deserted street. The puddles became larger and deeper as they travelled back towards the waterfront, and the damage wrought by the great wave increasingly apparent. They reached the street that ran along the bank of the Honeywine to find the big stone warehouse at its corner caved in at the front, splintered timbers jutting from the dark cavern of its interior. Huge branches from the ancient olive trees that lined the embankment littered the paving, and Anaeryn had to allow Aella to slow to a walk as she made her way through the debris in the virtual darkness. He was beginning to regret not pausing to locate some dry torches, but consoled himself with the thought that it would be more difficult for the Ironborn to ambush them if they weren’t being blinded to their surroundings by their own illuminations.

Somehow they reached the towering gatehouse at the end of the causeway without incident. The common folk who had clustered around its entrance had vanished, presumably having fled in the wake of the the great wave. Once the men atop the gatehouse recognised him they rushed to raise the heavy portcullis and the open the steel-banded gates behind.

‘My lord… I am glad of your safe return.’ Ser Tarrant greeted him gravely. He didn’t look glad. His face was pale and his voice cracked slightly as he continued. ‘Is this all that remains of your company?’

Anaeryn almost glanced back with confusion before he realised how it must have looked to the man for him to leave with a hundred riders and return with fewer than ten.

‘No, Ser Tarrant. I hope that I set your mind at ease by telling you that, to the best of my knowledge, our casualties were minimal and the eastern bastion on the water has been secured. The Ironborn have been scattered and Sergeant Hardcastle is searching the city for the survivors.’

He was gratified by the looks of relief that appeared on the faces around him. There was a much bigger issue to deal with, however.

‘None of your men were swept away by the wave, Ser Tarrant?’

‘At least two, my lord,’ the man replied, shaking his head, ‘caught on the causeway when the great beast arrived. I have another man reported missing, but none saw him disappear, so we must pray for his survival.’ He paused, and for a moment he looked scared. ‘My lord, have the Seven turned against us? What monstrous devilry is this?'


	10. Chapter 10

Lord Hightower looked worried.

Having given what little reassurance he could to Ser Tarrant and the men guarding the causeway, Anaeryn had continued on to the Hightower. He flung himself from Aella’s saddle as he cantered straight into the entrance hall and pressed her reins into the hand of a bewildered-looking servant.

‘Behave.’ He told her sternly, before hastening over to his adopted grandfather.

Leyton Hightower stood ashen in his vast hall, his face near as pale as the nightshirt Anaeryn could glimpse at his neck beneath the richly embroidered bed robe he was wearing. A dozen chandeliers, each wrought from solid silver and carrying a hundred costly beeswax candles, bathed the room in a warm, steady glow, but their illumination served only to make the man beneath them look frail and small.

‘Grandfather.’ Anaeryn greeted, inclining his head respectfully.

The old man’s eyes seemed to stare through him for a few, long moments before they focused.

‘Anaeryn.’ He said, blinking. ‘You are alive, I see.’

‘I am.’ Anaeryn replied, eyeing the other man with concern. A cluster of servants stood behind him, bearing blankets and refreshments and worried expressions.

‘You need not fear, my lord, for the enemy’s sorceries are spent.’

Anaeryn barely held himself back from starting with surprise at the dry rustle of the Mad Maid’s voice. This was the second time she had spoken without him noticing her presence, and he frowned as she emerged from the group of attendants, her large blue eyes fixed unblinkingly on him.

‘How do you know?’ He asked, barely keeping it from sounding like a demand.

‘The Great Kraken sails on a sea of blood.’ She replied. ‘The water is clean and full of salt tonight.’

Anaeryn stared at her, before stepping closer to Lord Leyton, not wanting to be heard by those looking nervously on.

‘Grandfather, all may well be lost even if Malora is correct. I fear that the Hightower fleet has perished. The Honeywine lies bare. We must set the new chains from the Isle to…’

Anaeryn broke off as the Lord of Oldtown continued to stare at him, blinking slowly and without a flicker of comprehension. Anaeryn wondered whether he had taken leave of his senses.

‘I…’ He began again, before jerking back as a hand clutched suddenly at his elbow.

‘Come with me.’

Malora’s long nails scraped against his armour as he turned to face her.

‘Come with me.’ She repeated insistently, tugging at his arm.

‘Go.’

Lord Leyton’s voice was suddenly firm, and Anaeryn was struck by the new clarity to the man’s gaze when he glanced back. It was strange, he thought, that the objections clustered behind his lips fell away and he allowed himself to sway in the direction of Malora’s pull.

‘See that the chains are raised.’ He ordered Gerold as he obediently followed the stooped figure. His friend nodded briskly and strode off as the Mad Maid led him around the still marble pool and past the shadowed gaze of long-dead Hightower kings. Anaeryn grew increasingly uneasy as he and his guards followed her down a series of great, vaulted passageways, moving further and further away from the forces that were no doubt closing in on the city. Eventually, Malora stopped at the top of a shallow flight of steps protected by a gate of wrought iron.

‘Only you.’

Anaeryn frowned down at the Mad Maid.

‘My guards do not leave my side.’ It was an automatic response. Even as an infant there had always been a midnight-armoured warrior standing vigil in the corner of the nursery, and the net of protection had only grown tighter as he aged. He had lived his entire life under the gaze of Dayne men at arms, only ever leaving their presence at the entrance to carefully secured private chambers.

Malora didn’t blink.

‘Your warriors are not welcome in the deep places. The spirits of the fallen will drive those not of Hightower blood to madness.’

Anaeryn felt a shiver of trepidation, but made himself lift an unimpressed brow.

‘My guards do not fear the dead.’

Malora smiled slowly.

‘They should, lest they join them.’

Anaeryn could feel the warriors behind him shifting uneasily, but when he stepped after Malora, a collective creak of armour followed.

‘Very well, my lord.’ Malora inclined her head and didn’t spare the guards a glance as she turned to the gate, drawing an enormous key from her shapeless dress. As the gate swung open, banks of torches on either side of the steps guttered into life, and Anaeryn felt a strange prickle of magic against his skin.

‘Stay here.’

Eleyne Sand’s eyes flashed dangerously in the light, but she did not dare to argue with his command.

‘We will wait for you here, my lord.’ She promised, and Annaeryn was amused to detect faint looks of relief on the faces of a couple of the men behind her.

The first flight of well-lit steps ended at a heavy door, which Malora jerked open. A waft of dry, stale air drifted like a sigh from the narrow, spiralling stairwell revealed.

Malora grunted as she stretched up to grab one of the torches from its iron bracket. The steps were steep and treacherous. The rough cut walls chiselled from the hard black rock were a jarring contrast to the soaring fantasy of honey-coloured stone that stood above them. Anxious that every step took him further from the fighting in the city, Anaeryn hastened after Malora, the clanking of his armour echoing loudly off the walls.

Malora passed and ignored several narrow doorways during their descent before she stopped, withdrawing another key from her robe to unlock a gate of thick steel bars that gleamed in the flickering torchlight.

Anaeryn glanced briefly at the steps that continued down into the darkness before he followed after her to find himself in a hard-hewn passageway that ended at another, identical gate.

‘These are the vaults of House Hightower.’ Malora told him in her slow, gravelly voice. ‘Carved into the rock of Battle Isle long before the Hightower rose, mayhaps before even the Long Night fell.’ She smiled slowly as she opened and ushered him through the second gate. ‘Behold, the wealth of empires!’

If Anaeryn had expected great mounds of gold to stand, heaped and gleaming before his eyes, as he was honest enough to admit to himself that he had, then he was disappointed.

Faded silk banners hung from warped poles, disjointed pieces of armour lay scattered about a floor thick with grime and piles of untidily rolled scrolls lay piled against the walls of the chamber they stood in.

Anaeryn stared at Malora, frustrated that he’d been pulled away from his duties by the mutterings of a woman who was plainly insane. The light from the torch she was holding made her face seem gaunt and her eyes look dark and empty. Anaeryn felt suddenly uneasy and his hand dropped instinctively to the hilt of his blade.

Malora smiled slowly.

‘Steel will not help you here, my prince.’ She declared. ‘Your blade will part flesh, but not ghosts.’

Anaeryn grit his teeth.

‘I see no ghosts. No gold nor steel. I see nothing, Malora, but a crone standing in a thousand years of dust.’

‘Mother and Maiden and Crone.’ The old woman muttered. ‘From the dust we spring and to the dust we return.’

Anaeryn wondered what force had made him follow Malora, what strength had overwhelmed his every natural impulse. There was nothing for him here.

‘You spout the words of a septa’ He scorned. ‘But I do not see the Warrior descending from above to slaughter the unfaithful.’

‘The Warrior?’ Malora questioned, suddenly focused on him. ‘No, my prince. You should not look to divine assistance just yet.’

She turned and beckoned him onwards through the gloom of the cavernous space, her torch throwing strange shadows onto the crude-cut walls. Anaeryn trailed after her through a series of chambers strewn with the detritus of centuries before at last they reached a shadowed corner.

‘Take this.’

Anaeryn grasped the torch and held it aloft as Malora scrabbled in the darkness.

‘Here, my prince.’

She turned, holding a twist of black cloth in both hands as though it were a sacred relic. Anaeryn approached, lowering his torch and parting the folds of velvet with a gloved finger. A carved stick lay across the crone’s palms, two hand-spans of dark wood gleaming in the light. Anaeryn’s instinctive scorn died in his throat. He could feel the stick, sense it without touching. It was an object of magic, of power.

‘It is yours, my prince.’

‘Mine.’ Anaeryn echoed, reaching out. Even gloved, his hand moulded to the contours of the stick, and as he raised it its tip began to glow with a pale radiance that grew rapidly until the cavern was suffused with light. Malora stared at him like a priest who had performed a miracle before her eyes. Anaeryn was blind to her look of awe as he sensed strangely familiar power thrumming in his veins. He felt exhilarated, full of the same kind of heady warmth that Loras’ smile instilled in him. He could sense the magic that sat beneath his skin reaching out to the stick, curling round it in a gentle stream and rushing back into his body as a mighty river.

_My master._

Anaeryn blinked. Malora still stared at him with shining eyes, and the voice had not been hers. It had been male, a soft purr of heat at the back of his skull. His gaze fell upon the stick.

_It can speak? _he wondered, astounded. He shook the thought away immediately afterwards, remembering what Malora had said about the ghosts of ancient Hightowers, although the whisperings of such apparitions seemed just as incredible.

He stood and felt the power wash through him for a few moments longer, listening slightly nervously for any more strange voices.

‘What is it?’ He asked, his voice a reverent whisper.

‘Our ancestors called it the Elder Wand, said to have been broken from a branch of an elder tree by the hand of the Stranger himself.’ She smiled slowly, grimly. ‘Those who have encountered it through the centuries have given it another name. The Deathstick.’

‘The Deathstick.’ Anaeryn echoed.

‘We must go.’

Malora was tugging at his arm again. She took the torch from him and guided him back towards the stairwell.

‘Malora…’ Anaeryn’s objection was cut off before he had a chance to speak it as Malora led him further into the depths of Battle Isle.

‘I feel the call of the sea this night.’ She declared, moving with impressive speed and certainty down the winding steps.

Their journey seemed interminable to Anaeryn, who could feel the Elder Wand almost vibrating through the leather of his glove and knew that his friends were likely risking life and limb in the city beyond the stone labyrinth. It was with a thick sense of relief, then, that he felt a faint breeze brush against his face as Malora at last stopped at a narrow landing on the never-ending stair and pulled him down a tight passageway.

It took him a moment to gain his bearings when they reached the end of the winding corridor and stepped out onto a narrow ledge of rock. The dark waters of the Whispering Sound murmured softly fifty feet below their feet. If he looked down Anaeryn could just make out the white froth of the swell breaking against the base of Battle Isle. Anaeryn quickly realised that they stood on the southern side of the island, with the city itself sprawling on either side and the vast black gap of the Whispering Sound filling the view straight ahead.

‘Why are we here, Malora?’

She had been staring into the darkness, but the Mad Maid turned to face him.

‘Why, to save the city, my prince.’ She replied as though the answer should have been obvious to him.

‘How?’ He demanded.

She stared at him.

‘You have the strength, my lord; you have the Elder Wand.’

Anaeryn looked down at the stick in his hand. It seemed familiar. The light from Malora’s torch was dirty and dim, revealing little more than an outline. And yet he felt certain that he could have described its every detail, its every intricate carving and tiny scratch, to a stranger without further examination.

_Use me._

That was the wand. He was sure of it.

_How? _He thought back, feeling strange.

Half of him had expected a response, the other a deafening silence. The alien amusement that bubbled uncomfortably in his brain was neither.

_You know not how? _The deep voice asked.

Anaeryn frowned, and found suddenly that he did. It was strange, as though a long since barred door in his thoughts had burst open to reveal a room heaped to the rafters with forbidden knowledge. He could almost feel the wand tugging him through the depths of his own mind to the required destination. Suddenly, his head was full to bursting with a vision of flames that had him flinching and blinking to clear his sight. Malora stared back at him, a shadowy outline against the darkness. A drip of boiling tar fell from the head of the torch she was holding and onto her hand, but she did not even seem to notice the pain.

‘My prince.’

Malora had been facing him the whole time, but she stepped to one side on the narrow ledge of rock and swept her arm out expansively to reveal the full stretch of the dark horizon without bothering to glance at it. Anaeryn swallowed, and his hand fell once more to the hilt of the sword at his hip. There were lights on the water. Hundreds of them. Not the two neat, disciplined lines of the pontoon and ships that had been swept away and crushed, but a great, flickering sprawl of distant lanterns.

It was difficult to guess, but Anaeryn estimated that the nearest light must have been no more than half a mile from where he stood. Somehow, Anaeryn felt that that swarm of yellow stars was a far more fearsome sight than the Ironborn fleet exposed to the day would have been. He could see them moving slowly, a cloud of glowing insects drifting towards him.

His thoughts ran to the men gathered on the city walls, the watchmen and his guards straining at the levers of the great catapults. He knew that, even if Ser Garth had succeeded on the western bank, there were far too many longships for the artillery to sink before the Honeywine was choked with them.

‘What do you expect me to do?’ He whispered, mesmerised by the approaching fleet.

He didn’t know whether she answered him as he stepped past her to stand at the edge of the outcrop. He could feel the soft, cool breeze chilling the sweat on his brow.

Anaeryn looked down at the Elder Wand and felt foolish for a moment. Here he stood, facing thousands of ironborn warriors borne in on a tide of ancient sorcery, with only a stick and crone to hold against them.

‘Have faith, my prince.’

Malora’s words echoed nonsensically around his skull before he absorbed them, and found that he did have faith. His magic was curled tight in his chest, and he could feel the wand in his hand grasping at it, tugging at the knot of strength he had always felt but never understood how to wield.

The words, when they came, sprang unbidden to his lips.

_‘Ignistus Sacer Milleficar Tempestatum!’_

Anaeryn thought that his voice sounded slightly strange as he spoke and flicked the Elder Wand in the general direction of the horizon.

He stood, frozen, as he felt his magic pulled from him and into the wand. He attempted instinctively to grasp for it, to stop its familiar warmth from fleeing, but the tug was far too strong.

The tip of the Deathstick lit up once more, but not with the clear, white radiance it had emitted in the cavern. The glow was of a molten orange that hurt his eyes to look at. The next instant, he had to force himself to keep hold of the wand as he raised his other arm to shield his face from the sudden burst of heat.

A wind that could have rushed from the mouth of hell itself swirled inside his helm and he clenched his eyes closed behind his forearm to protect himself from the light. Strange patterns danced against his eyelids as the stick in his hand began to shake violently.

He had not intended to open his eyes when he did, but the sound that welled up around him, pulsing deep within his chest and making his organs stutter in their function, dropped his arm to his side.

For a moment, it was as though the sun had risen in the instant he had been blind. But it was not a great orb of light floating high above that had brought the dawn, but a monstrous shape wreathed with flame.

_A phoenix. _He thought, awed by the sight, before another roar emitted from the great beast and its burning wings flung a wall of heat back towards him. _No. _He contradicted himself, shaken. _A dragon._

As the vibrations of the creature’s roar faded away he heard Malora cackling behind him, for once sounding just as mad as the smallfolk thought her.

The flaming dragon hovered in place above the water in front of them for what seemed like an age as Anaeryn began to feel the warmth of his furnace-heated armour start to sink through the layers of padding he wore. Just as he was beginning to question the protection gifted him by his Targaryen blood, the creature threw back its serpentine head once more to send the world trembling with its voice, before it flew off, billowing streams of flame.

Anaeryn watched, filled with wonder, as the light of the great beast first illuminated the foremost longships of the armada now only a few hundred yards away, before it descended. He could discern little of what happened next, for as soon as the first shining talon came into contact with the surface of the Honeywine a great cloud of steam boiled upwards.

Anaeryn thought that the sight of the dragon wreathed in sparkling mist was perhaps the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. His captivation with the immense beast, twirling and burningbetween the dark sky and gleaming water, lasted until he stumbled. Only Malora’s impressively strong grip on his arm saved him from tumbling over the edge and into the sea below.

‘My prince!’

Malora’s eyes gleamed with the reflected light of the fire as they met his.

‘I…’ Anaeryn began, feeling his strength continue to drain from his limbs. The sound of the evaporating sea filled his ears and he could feel his magic spooling out through the wand, unravelling beyond his control.


	11. Chapter 11

The pillow was so soft, and the light so bright. Anaeryn turned and nuzzled his face into the cloud of feathers, trying to hide from the sun and pull sleep back towards him. He sighed forlornly when it didn’t come, and slowly the world began to press back in.

He stilled when he felt the thick mattress dip beside him, suddenly awake and wary. The soft touch against his side, when it came, almost made him jerk away. He forced himself to remain frozen, and found his body relaxing involuntarily as the touch atop the coverlet ran slowly down his body. The gentle weight lingered, hovering just above his waist. Anaeryn realised suddenly that he was hard, that his bare cock was trapped between his stomach and the sheet beneath him.

The touch remained, and now Anaeryn thought he could feel its warmth pressing through the covers to sit against his skin. He turned his head slowly towards the occupied side of the bed, attempting to feign the movement of sleep.

The touch disappeared, to Anaeryn’s disappointment, and he opened his eyes to find a young god sharing his chamber.

_No. _He decided suddenly, the memory of the magic he had wrought flitting back to him. _A flaming dragon enveloped in mist is not the most beautiful thing I have ever seen._

Loras smiled down at him, slightly nervously it seemed, as Anaeryn blinked in the light.

‘You’re awake.’ His voice was warm and relieved.

‘Yes.’ Anaeryn agreed, grateful that his erection remained trapped. His voice sounded dry and thick, and he sipped pathetically at the cup of cool water that Loras hastily pressed to his lips. He swilled the liquid around his mouth briefly before swallowing, trying to clear the bitterness that had accumulated in his sleep.

‘The city?’ He asked eventually, once he felt he had remembered enough of the events before his embarrassing collapse.

‘Is safe.’ Loras replied with a smile that made Anaeryn’s heart stutter and his cock stiffen even further. ‘I arrived from Highgarden with five hundred men yesterday morn to find the Ironborn defeated.’

Anaeryn felt relief wash through him, although he had assumed a victory from the fact that he was resting on soft linens in his own chamber and speaking to Loras.

‘But Highgarden cannot have responded to news of the attack so quickly?’ He asked, assuming that Lord Leyton had had a raven sent to Lord Tyrell the night of the Ironborn assault. Highgarden was more than a hundred leagues away by road, and unless he had been unconscious for more than a week there was no chance that even cavalry reinforcements could have reached them.

Loras flushed slightly under his look of confusion.

‘I was already on the road when the attack took place.’ He admitted. ‘The Shields still hold and I thought, well, I persuaded my father that Oldtown was more vulnerable than Highgarden.’

Anaeryn wasn’t quite sure how to respond. He wanted to think that Loras had rushed back to be with him, but his actions made some sense strategically. It was valuable to House Tyrell to be seen to be defending its bannermen, even if its troops arrived after the fighting was done.

‘What happened?’ He asked, wondering what was being said of the flaming dragon he had set upon the Ironborn fleet.

Loras spoke slowly, as though he could not quite believe what had happened. He hadn’t been there in person, though, so Anaeryn wasn’t surprised.

‘An immense beast of fire appeared from nothing and descended upon the Ironborn fleet. Hundreds of them were burned to nothing.’ He paused. ‘The flames that saved the city, though, spread to the merchant shipping in the river, and over the waterfront. Many thousands have died, mayhaps a quarter of the city lies in ruins.’

Loras seemed troubled, which was strange, Anaeryn couldn’t help but think as the rest of him recoiled in horror. The merchant ships.A quarter of the city. Thousands of lives. Many. Loras’ words flickered, disjointed, through his head. He had slaughtered his own people. He had wrought more destruction in a single night than even the Ironborn had managed with all of their strange new sorceries. He turned over and sat up. His cock was suddenly rather less of an issue, though he couldn’t help but notice Loras’ gaze dropping lower as the sheet fell from his upper body.

‘Where…’ He began, breaking off and taking a sip of water in an attempt to collect himself. ‘Where did this beast come from?’

His eyes had been fixed on the fine patterns in the pottery of the cup he was holding, but as the silence stretched he forced himself to meet Loras’ uneasy stare.

‘We do not know, my lord.’ He whispered. The other boy’s formal mode of address struck Anaeryn harder than his expression. ‘The septons have claimed it to be the sword of the Warrior descending to defend the city in its hour of need, burning away both the Ironborn and the unfaithful. The word-weavers who preach in the city squares are naming it the fury of the Stranger, or whatever name their religions give to death. They claim the city has grown fat and idle on its riches, that the Ironborn have merely prompted the judgement of the gods upon us all.’

He hesitated, swallowing and glancing away.

‘Go on.’ Anaeryn prompted.

‘The highborn.’ Loras continued, more quietly. ‘The nobility and many of the guards are whispering that Malora gave birth to the creature.’ He stopped, clearly unsure about whether to continue.

‘Please.’ Anaeryn didn’t know what he was asking for.

‘They suggest that she attempted to use you, my lord, took you as a sacrifice for her magic. Your guards have refused to talk to anyone, so far as I know, but it is said that she summoned them to rescue you from a chamber of sorcery deep beneath this tower.’

Anaeryn closed his eyes in thought, desperately trying to make sense of what he had heard, even as a vision of burning smallfolk screaming and dying in the streets tried to fill his head.

‘How long since the night of the attack?’ He asked eventually.

Loras looked surprised by the question, but answered him readily enough.

‘It is the afternoon of the third day since the night of the attack.’ He replied.

_Three days. _Anaeryn thought. _Three days I have been trapped here while the city suffers. _An unpleasant bitterness overtook him. _Perhaps it has been for the best, for it is the suffering I have caused that they are attempting to recover from._

‘I must see Malora.’

Loras looked concerned.

‘Malora, my lord?’ He asked, frowning.

‘Malora.’ Anaeryn repeated. ‘Ferryon!’ Surely his squire was somewhere nearby. His voice was not as strong as he might have hoped, but it would come back, and although he felt somewhat weak he was no longer tired.

‘He’s asleep.’ Loras told him. ‘And you should not strain yourself.’

‘I am not injured.’ Anaeryn replied. ‘I have rested for long enough.’ He was about to shout for the guards he knew must be stood guard at the door to his chambers when his squire came stumbling into the room.

‘My lord, you’re awake?’ He asked, sounding slightly confused. He was barechested, and only a loose set of smallclothes protected his modesty.

‘I am.’ Anaeryn agreed. ‘I hope that I have not forced you to rise at an untimely hour.’ The sun was clearly several hours past noon in the sky. ‘Could you dress yourself and bring Malora to me?’

‘Bring the Mad Maid to you, my lord?’ The boy repeated, suddenly looking awake and afraid. ‘My lord, they are saying she is a sorceress who tried to kill you!’

Anaeryn blinked, touched by his squire’s obvious concern, but annoyed by the questioning of his orders.

‘In that case I should perhaps ask her about her attempt upon my life.’ He suggested lightly. His levity didn’t seem to reassure his squire, and he noticed Loras frowning again. ‘Malora did not attempt to kill me.’ He told them calmly. ‘But I must speak with her as soon as she can be found.’

Ferryon nodded, chastened, and hastily left the room.

‘He has been sitting with you through the nights.’ Loras said softly. ‘He is exhausted.’

Anaeryn immediately felt guilty.

‘I will apologise to him.’ He promised.

Silence fell for a long time as Anaeryn sank back into his pillows and watched the sunlight playing in the strands of Loras’ hair. He lay there, contemplating the fact that he had killed thousands and yet all that he could wish for was Loras’ hand returning to caress his side. Mace Tyrell’s son had a blade at his hip, but otherwise wore only pale breeches and hose and a shirt of fine linen that exposed delicate collarbones and a stretch of smooth muscle to his gaze.

He was torn from his thoughts by the sound of the door to his chambers bursting open. Ferryon had left mere moments earlier, and so he could not be returning with his quarry. Loras’ hand had dropped to his sword. They waited, listening to someone bump around the antechamber, before the very last person Anaeryn had expected to see appeared in the doorway.

‘Archmaester.’ Anaeryn greeted, trying to hide his confusion as Loras relaxed.

Archmaester Marwyn exposed his horrifying teeth.

‘My lord, Ser Loras.’ He rumbled back, nodding his bristly head at both of them before walking in bearing a leather bag that rattled with every step.

‘I am glad to see you have rejoined us, my lord.’ He continued, ignoring Loras completely as he dropped to his knees beside the bed and slapped the back of one meaty hand none too gently against Anaeryn’s forehead.

‘No longer feverish. Good.’ He muttered, pawing around in his bag. Anaeryn watched as he drew out a small vial of murky looking liquid and proceeded to dump its contents into his half-drunk cup of water.

‘Drink.’

Anaeryn frowned at the man, but did as he was told and drained the newly sour liquid.

‘Good. How do you feel?’ The archmaester’s inquiry didn’t sound particularly concerned.

‘I feel fine.’ Anaeryn told him. ‘My squire is bringing Malora to me, and once I have had a chance to converse with her then I shall be dressing and returning to my duties.’

If he’d expected Marwyn to object, the man disappointed him.

‘Malora. Hmm. Good.’ He grunted out, refilling Anaeryn’s cup from the jug at his bedside and taking a swig from a flask of some foul-smelling concoction he pulled from his robes. He turned at last to Loras, who looked deeply uncomfortable under the stare. Anaeryn suddenly felt awkward as well.

‘Ser Loras, I believe Ser Reedon was looking for you not more than half an hour past. I told him that I would inform you should our paths cross.’

Loras bristled, golden eyes flashing for a moment as rebelled against what was clearly an attempt at dismissal from someone vastly his inferior. He glanced briefly at Anaeryn and his expression softened.

‘Thank you, Archmaester.’ He replied politely. His hand briefly grasped Anaeryn’s sheet-covered knee before he rose to his feet and, with one last brief look, left.

‘Why are you still here?’ Anaeryn asked bluntly as soon as he heard the outer door pull closed.

Marwyn grinned at him.

‘I am not as easy to remove as you think, my lord.’ He replied. ‘Your warning to me made me leave the Citadel, but I have stayed in the city.’

He quelled Anaeryn’s annoyed look by raising his hand.

‘If I had not stayed, my lord, then you would likely have a maester under the control of the other archmaesters looking after you. Maester Letwood,’ he continued, naming Lord Leyton’s maester, ‘is one of their creatures. And also a poor healer.’

Anaeryn decided not to argue with Marwyn’s presence, for indeed he would not have wanted to be tended to by one of the Citadel’s minions.

‘You saw the dragon?’ He asked eventually, as the man merely sat crouched at his bedside.

Archmaester Marwyn grinned.

‘Aye. I did.’ He agreed. ‘A magnificent creature, my lord.’

Anaeryn did not bother to claim that he had not been responsible.

‘A monster.’ He replied. ‘Released without knowledge or understanding upon a city of innocents.’

‘My lord!’

His squire rushed into the room before Marwyn could respond. The Mad Maid followed after him, clad in a pale blue robe and stooped over a cane.

‘The Mad-’ His squire broke off and flushed. ‘I mean, the Lady Malora, my lord.’

‘Thank you, Ferryon.’ Anaeryn replied, amused in spite of himself. ‘Go and find some food. You may return to your bed once you have eaten.’

‘I am happy to stay, my lord.’ The boy protested nervously, eyes flickering between the archmaester and the Mad Maid.

‘And I am grateful.’ Anaeryn replied. ‘But I must speak in private on this occasion.’

His squire nodded quickly and fled the room.

Anaeryn fell back into his pillows again, closing his eyes and bracing himself.

‘Tell me, Malora.’ He instructed.

‘My prince,’ she whispered, ‘you have brought sorcery into this world not seen since ancient days. You have torn the enemy fleet asunder, burned them to ashes in their hulls. You are magic made flesh and-’

‘I have killed thousands!’

Anaeryn had intended to break her off, but not to shout so loudly.

‘Magic is a sword without a hilt, my lord, as like to cut the wielder as any other.’ Marwyn proclaimed.

Anaeryn stretched his bare arms towards them, palms up.

‘And yet I am unmarked. Three days in a soft bed and I return to the world of the living, whilst those who dwell in the city beneath us have only their tears for consolation.’

Malora stood at the end of his bed and stared directly at him.

‘And victory, my prince, victory.’

Anaeryn knew in his heart that her words were true. After the great wave had rolled up the Sound Oldtown had been left bare and vulnerable. The Hightower itself, a fortress that had not been taken since the Age of Heroes, might have stood firm and waited through a siege, but the city on the banks of the Honeywine would have fallen. Guilt still burned unpleasantly in his chest. He closed his eyes again and lay in silence under the stares of the two sorcerers.

‘Malora, you have the wand?’

‘I do, my prince.’

‘Keep it.’ Anaeryn instructed. He had no desire to ever see the object again. The thought of ordering Malora to destroy it crossed his mind, but he found that the idea horrified him as much as prospect of losing a limb would.

‘Malora. What have you said of the night of the battle?’

‘I have said nothing, my prince. I have spoken only to my lord father.’

Anaeryn hadn’t expected any other response, but was nevertheless relieved.

‘I am glad.’ He paused to think. ‘Marwyn tells me that the world beyond this room has not settled on a tale. We will provide them with one. The beast of fire was a creature summoned by the Ironborn. It slipped their control and destroyed them.’

Marwyn nodded.

‘But my prince,’ Malora protested, ‘your power should be known to the world!’

‘My power should be kept from the world.’ Anaeryn snapped. ‘For the sake of both the smallfolk and my self. Enough!’ He exclaimed when Malora made to object again. ‘The decision is made. I will speak to Ser Garth and Ser Tarrant, who will see the information spread to the Hightower household, and to the Archsepton, who will see it taken to the common folk.’

Marwyn gave a bow of acknowledgement. Malora dropped a reluctant curtsey.

Anaeryn eyed her slowly.

‘How did you know?’

‘My prince?’

‘How did you know what would happen? How did you know what I could do when even I did not?’

‘My prince,’ the Mad Maid purred, ‘my sight is not fixed in place or in moment. It runs free and shows me all things beneath the sun.’

Anaeryn had little patience for Malora’s cryptic mutterings, but he had a sense that pressing her would only make her spout more nonsense.

‘You have my gratitude for your actions, Malora, and my thanks for your care, Archmaester.’ Such formal words felt odd when he was sat up in bed before them with his chest bared. ‘I must rise and dress.’

‘Of course, my lord. With your squire gone, I am sure that my assistant would be willing to aid you.’

‘Excellent. Send him to me.’

-

‘Pardon me, my lord.’

Anaeryn jerked round, grateful that he’d just tied his smallclothes into place.

‘No pardon is necessary.’ He replied, smiling at the pretty girl before him. Her neat maidservant’s uniform was well-pressed and closely fitted to her full figure. She smiled at him, eyes fixed on his face.

‘Archmaester Marwyn sent me to assist you, my lord.’

‘Did he?’ Anaeryn asked curiously, searching for a pair of breeches. ‘Is Jape still in the Archmaester’s service?’

He noticed her flush slightly as she replied. It suited her, he thought absently, bringing colour to her pale face and setting off her narrow features.

‘I believe so, my lord.’

Anaeryn raised an eyebrow at her uncertainty, but dismissed the thought, relieved that his man was apparently still in place.

‘Would you attend to having a bath prepared for me?’ He asked. ‘I have duties to attend to for a short while, but would appreciate some hot water when I return.’

She dipped a smooth curtsey and smiled.

‘Of course, my lord.’

-

Clad in a doublet of midnight blue silk embroidered with silver vines and tan boots of butter soft calfskin, Anaeryn exited his chambers.

‘My lord!’ One of the guards on the door exclaimed, apparently surprised to see him standing.

‘Good afternoon, Ricasso.’ Anaeryn replied. ‘Perhaps you and Frynne would be willing to accompany me?’

The dark-skinned Dornishman nodded.

‘Of course, my lord, perhaps you should wait in your chambers until more guards can be sent for to protect them?’

‘I have remained within my chambers for long enough.’ Anaeryn told him, irked that one of his guards would presume to challenge him. ‘Frynne, find Ser Joe and have him post new guards to my rooms. After that he should come and find me in the dungeons. Ricasso will be quite enough of a defence for now.’

Frynne, a woman with a beautiful body but features that were rather too coarse, nodded immediately.

‘The dungeons, my lord?’ Ricasso asked nervously, apparently quelled, as they made their way down the long flight of stairs.

‘I am working on the basis that not all of the Ironborn died and that we have some captives?’

‘I think we got some of them, my lord.’

-

‘Are you asking me to pull my aged grandfather from his bed atop the tower and descend to countermand his order?’ Anaeryn asked coldly, incredulous that the squat man in front of him was daring to disobey him.

The man named Orland, who’d introduced himself as Lord Leyton’s Head Gaoler, puffed out his chest.

‘I have my instructions, my lord, and I’ve been told not to let anyone ‘cept me own men in to see the scum. Not even nobles, my lord.’ He added.

‘And can you tell me why you were given such strict instructions?’ Anaeryn inquired even as he contemplated having the man arrested and thrown into the deepest of the very cells he was guarding.

‘It’s not my place to question my lord’s orders, my lord.’ The gaoler declared, although he glanced nervously at a restless Ricasso as he spoke.

‘Perhaps I can persuade this man to aid us, my lord?’ Anaeryn’s guardsman purred softly, tossing a dagger with a blade as long as his forearm high above his head and catching it neatly.

Orland watched as it span gleaming through the hot air.

‘Gaoler Orland, I am asking you to allow me entrance to the cells.’ Anaeryn told the man. ‘Should you elect to refuse me again, your punishment dances beside me.

Orland watched the blade as it dropped from above once more into the hand of its owner. He stepped aside.

‘Of course, my lord, my apologies.’ He mumbled.

Ricasso chuckled darkly and ushered the man forwards mockingly to open the heavy iron gate that led to the dungeons.

‘Tell me,’ Anaeryn began as they descended a few steps to enter a long barrel-vaulted corridor, ‘do we have any highborn captives?’

Even in the dim light of the passage, Anaeryn could see Orland draw himself up importantly.

‘Victarion Greyjoy himself, my lord!’ He exclaimed. ‘Pulled from the Honeywine half-drowned by some smallfolk. Bah!’ He grunted and spat on the rush-strewn floor. ‘His wet god might have saved ‘im from the river, but it won’t protect ‘im from Lord Leyton’s justice.’

‘Indeed not.’ Anaeryn agreed as they made their way down the corridor. A small guardroom had sat at the end nearest the entrance, but beyond that heavy ironbound doors with small openings lined each side. Anaeryn could hear quiet mutterings begin to stir as they walked past and suddenly felt slightly uneasy in court dress and with only a single guard at his side.

‘Is the Crow’s Eye dead?’ Anaeryn questioned, cursing himself for not having asked after the man when he’d had Marwyn and Malora at his bedside.

Orland shrugged as he led them deeper.

‘Don’t know, my lord. All I keep here is living men. And a few sluts.’

Anaeryn chose to ignore that, and thankfully Orland had stopped in front of a cell door.

‘It’s Victarion you're wanting to see, my lord?’

‘Yes.’ Anaeryn replied, steeling himself. It would not do to show hesitation in front of the gaoler, nor any hint of weakness before a Greyjoy.

‘My lord!’

Anaeryn glanced back up the dim corridor to see Ser Joe leading half a dozen of his guards and a pair of upset looking gaolers towards him.

‘My lord!’ Orland protested, apparently having regained some of his courage. ‘Lord Leyton said no visitors. You might as well be bringing the whole city in!’

Anaeryn couldn’t help but glance at the man with astonishment. It was one thing at attempt to obey orders given by his ultimate superior, but quite another to be wholly insubordinate to the second most powerful man in the city.

‘Ser Joe,’ Anaeryn instructed, feeling considerably more comfortable now that he had the strength around him to deal with the situation, ‘arrest this man.’

Orland looked shocked as two pairs of black-gauntleted hands grasped his arms and shoulders.

‘My lord!’ He attempted to protest, before he was caught gasping for breath by a powerful knee to the stomach.

‘His keys.’

Ser Joe pulled the heavy bunch from the man’s belt and made him show the correct implement for the cell door.

‘If I might go first, my lord?’ He asked politely when Anaeryn made to take the key from him.

Anaeryn nodded his approval, silently admiring how Ser Joe managed to disobey without annoying him.

Anaeryn saw that the cell, when he finally managed to enter it after Ser Joe and two bulky men at arms, contained a man who managed to look impressive in spite of his imprisonment. The room was small, half-sunk into the ground so that the only light came from a narrow barred slot of a window above their heads. A thin straw cot stood against one wall, a reeking bucket of a chamber pot in the corner furthest from it. Manacled by both wrists and chained to the wall beneath the window stood Victarion Greyjoy.

He was dressed in shadow and rags, dark eyes glowering from beneath a heavy shelf-like brow. As he stretched himself upright with a soft clink of chains, Anaeryn thought that he must be at least six and a half feet tall and as broad across the shoulders as a plough horse.

‘Lord Captain.’ Anaeryn greeted, trying to ignore the puddle of what he was sure was piss a few inches away from his costly boots.

‘Little lordling.’ The man replied in a voice as hard as grit.

-

‘You’re not going to get anything out of him.’

Anaeryn glanced at Gerold with irritation as the two of them paced the corridor outside Victarion Greyjoy’s cell under the watchful eye of Ser Joe. His friend had barged into his useless interview with the Lord Captain shortly after it had begun, but even the Darkstar’s oppressive presence hadn’t loosened the man’s tongue.

‘The man’s as stubborn as a bullock.’ Gerold continued, shrugging. ‘And as stupid as a whole herd of them.’

‘Too stupid to understand reason. Too stupid to feel pain. Too angry and too proud to acknowledge his defeat.’ Anaeryn admitted. ‘Bitter enough to reveal his brother’s survival, and just clever enough to withhold knowledge of his intentions.’

_‘Is your brother dead?’ _Anaeryn had asked after a string of unanswered questions. His heart had sunk at the sudden gleam in the Lord Captain’s eyes.

_‘That bastard can’t fucking die.’_ Had come the response. _‘He wasn’t even with the fleet when we attacked. I was in charge.’_

Anaeryn had thought that something of an empty boast coming from a man chained up in his enemy’s dungeon, but quickly remembered how close the Lord Captain’s attack had come to success. He hadn’t asked the man about his sorcery, although he had desperately wanted to. He didn’t want his own men spreading the rumour that the Ironborn themselves had no idea where the fiery dragon had sprung from.

‘So what will you do?’ Gerold prompted.

Anaeryn paused in his step. They needed to know what Euron was up to. Victarion might have found his own sorceries, but his brother had always been the larger threat and the knowledge that he still sailed free somewhere had been a bitter blow.

‘Well, the most obvious course of action is to drag his captains in here until we can get one of them to break.’ He replied eventually. ‘We have a dozen?’

Gerold nodded.

‘About that number, but breaking them will take time, unless you’re willing to have others help interrogate them? They may not even know where the Crow’s Eye is.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So what will you do?’

Anaeryn began to pace again, frowning with frustration as he tried to think.

‘Euron is missing.’ He began slowly as Gerold leant his long-limbed frame against the rough wall and watched silently. ‘We have little idea how many ships Victarion had, and even less how many Euron is likely to now possess.’

His friend’s handsome, saturnine face remained largely impassive, though Anaeryn noted the slight tightening of his clean-shaven jaw.

‘House Drumm. House Harlaw. House Goodbrother. House Blacktyde. House Botley. The greatest lords of the Iron Islands. All brought low.’ Anaeryn mused. Gerold had listed the houses attached to the banners that been regurgitated by the Honeywine in the days he had been unconscious.

‘You could speak to Lord Harlaw, my lord?’ Ser Joe suggested.

‘Lord Harlaw?’ Anaeryn asked. ‘The gaoler made no mention of him.'

Ser Joe shook his head and Anaeryn thought the captain of his guards looked almost embarrassed.

‘He is not here, my lord. He was commanding the men the Lord Captain sent to seize the western wall.’

‘And Ser Garth has managed to lose his captive?’ Anaeryn asked.

‘It was not Ser Garth who captured Lord Harlaw, my lord, but the captain of one of the ships that took him across the Sound. It is my understanding that he was caught on the waterfront attempting to flee the fighting.’

Anaeryn nodded.

‘Why is he not in a cell here?’

Ser Joe definitely looked embarrassed now.

‘My lord,’ he began uncomfortably, ‘Captain Dunstal has retained control of his captive. I believe he is expecting something of a ransom.’

Anaeryn understood, but he didn’t bother to hide his frustration.

‘I assume that Captain Dunstal’s ship escaped the flames. Send a messenger to him ordering him to release his captive to my care. I will pledge that any ransom forthcoming belongs to him. I will meet with Lord Harlaw in my chambers.’

-

Anaeryn contemplated visiting his grandfather, but the prospect of informing Lord Leyton that he’d had his Head Gaoler arrested was enough to make him hesitate. He could feel himself tiring, and the thought of spending an hour being winched up and down the Hightower for a brief meeting was enough to make him decide that it was in the warm waters of his bath that his most pressing duty lay.

He found the maid whose name he’d forgotten to ask waiting patiently when he stepped back into the warm embrace of his chambers.

‘Your bath is ready, my lord.’ She said softly, her words accompanied by another immaculate curtsey. Anaeryn, brought to a suspicious frame of mind by his interrogations, narrowed his eyes at her.

‘I’m afraid I was too rude to ask for your name earlier?’

‘Lissy, my lord.’ She replied politely.

‘Have you been in Archmaester Marwyn’s employ long?’ He asked, trying to sound merely curious as he unfastened his doublet and handed it off to her.

She hesitated.

‘Not long, my lord.’ She replied. ‘I was a maid to Lady Tystane before that.’

_Well, that explains the curtsey. _Anaeryn thought. He knew that Lady Tystane had been Lord Hightower’s third wife, and had died a few turns before he had first arrived in Oldtown for the tourney. He supposed it made sense that her old maids would be out of favour under a new Lady Hightower and searching desperately for work.

‘Do you happen to know where my own servants are?’ He asked, noting with amusement that her cheeks were flaming as she took his breeches.

She seemed about to respond, but her words dried up and she stood, as though transfixed, as Anaeryn removed his smallclothes and walked across his bedchamber to the gently steaming tub awaiting him. The water was still a little cool for his tastes, but he knew that if he’d stepped into a vat of water that would have burned the skin from an ordinary man then Lissy would have started spreading inconvenient rumours about him.

‘Umm, I think they’re helping with the wounded in the hospital, my lord. Archmaester Marwyn and your squire assured them that they had your care in hand and that they were more valuably employed elsewhere.’

Anaeryn nodded, closing his eyes and tilting his head back against the side of his bath as he contemplated what a pretty turn of phrase Marwyn’s new assistant had. Both of his body servants were competent healers and it made sense that they would be aiding in the treatment of the wounded.

‘Your soap, my lord.’

Anaeryn opened his eyes to take the waxy lemon-fragranced bar from Lissy.

He watched her arrange his clothes as he washed himself. He had thought that his suspicions had been appeased by the knowledge that she had been a lady’s maid, but he found himself frowning again. Strangely, it was the sight of her shapely hips that prompted his memory.

_‘Mayhaps a year older than yourself and a maiden, with wide hips and a family history that would promise you many fine children.’_The words spoken long weeks ago in his audience with Lord Leyton’s bannermen echoed in his mind.

‘Lissy.’

She turned back round towards him and as he examined her features he became almost certain.

‘What does your father think of your new position?’

She stilled, her hands suddenly clutching his shirt.

‘My father, my lord?’

‘Your father.’ Anaeryn repeated, wondering what she would do.

‘It was my idea, my lord.’ She said, almost defiantly. ‘He agreed to allow me to do as I saw fit.’

‘How many daughters does Lord Redruth possess?’ Anaeryn asked, continuing to wash himself.

‘Four by my mother, my lord,’ the girl replied, ‘I know nothing of his natural born offspring.’

_Perhaps not so much of a risk as I had thought, then. _Anaeryn decided.

‘Your plan was to seduce me?’

He couldn’t help but admire her spirit when she tossed her head defiantly, sending thick chestnut hair flying.

‘Perhaps it still is, my lord.’

He laughed.

‘I wish you luck in your endeavour.’ He commented ironically. ‘Does Archmaester Marwyn know of your identity?’ His question was important, for if Marwyn had known of the girl’s identity, and given her access to his chambers and his person, then his trust in the man would be significantly impaired.

‘I do not think so, my lord. There are few in Oldtown who know my face as Lyssa Redruth.’ She said, acknowledging her true name. ‘I came to the city after the tourney under the name of Lissy the maid.’

‘Attempting to protect yourself should your plan bear no fruit.’ Anaeryn surmised.

She nodded.

‘Yes, my lord. If I failed to win your affections,’ _and your hand in marriage when I revealed myself _went unsaid, ‘then I would have returned to Rutherfall for a period of time until my face was forgotten by Oldtown, or else perhaps sought a husband in Highgarden.’

Her plan made sense. As Lord Leyton’s heir, he would have been a remarkable prize for the youngest daughter of a man whose wealth and influence were significant but little known beyond the foothills of the Red Mountains.

‘What are you going to do, my lord?’ Lyssa Redruth asked. He thought she was trying to sound seductive as she approached his bathtub with a predatory gait, notorious hips in evidence. She faltered, however, a few feet away from him, and in that hesitation her nerves became clear.

‘I am going to finish my bath and dress myself.’ Anaeryn replied. ‘You will return to Archmaester Marwyn and tell him that a member of your family has caught some sickness and needs to be cared for. You will return to your father.’

He’d been tempted, for a moment, to use her. Knowing what he did, he could ruin her reputation with a seemingly careless word. She could be a valuable spy if he found her employ in someone’s household. It was not worth the risk, he decided reluctantly. Lord Redruth was a cunning man and could be a valuable supporter. He was not like to take kindly to Anaeryn taking such advantage of his daughter without the prospect of a marriage contract. Anaeryn knew that when he took a wife it would be for the swords her family could provide rather than in a fit of lust.


	12. Chapter 12

It took nearly two hours for the Lord of the Ten Towers to be transferred from _Spindrift_. Anaeryn was amused to note that he arrived with Captain Dunstal in tow. No doubt the captain wanted to ingratiate himself with his liege-lord, but also keep control of a man whose house’s wealth meant was worth a very large ransom. _It is a shame that the Ironborn never pay in gold for the return of their own_, Anaeryn mused. He rather doubted that the slim-faced youth with his shock of pale hair would have any particular desire for the iron price value of his captive.

Rodrik Harlaw was the only major lord, save for the Lord Captain, who’d managed to survive the slaughter. He was a man of middling height, nondescript face framed by a neatly kept and greying beard. His otherwise erect bearing was stymied somewhat by the tightly bandaged wound in his side, to which one of his hands was clasped.

Anaeryn sent the lord’s captor from his chambers, promising to recognise his rights over the man’s person, before gesturing the prisoner to a chair in his richly appointed solar.

‘Lord Harlaw.’

The man’s watery blue eyes darted from his injury to return the stare. Anaeryn thought he could see the numbing influence of the milk of the poppy behind his blown pupils. He hoped silently that the effects had not confined themselves to the man’s body.

‘Lord Dayne, I believe.’ He acknowledged slowly. ‘If I have identified the sigil borne by your men correctly.’ His speech was precise, almost cultured, for all its halting delivery.

‘You have, my lord.’ Anaeryn confirmed. ‘I hope that Captain Dunstal has kept good care of you in the time you have spent under his charge?’

The man inclined his head, and the first trace of humour entered his expression.

‘I have been looked after well, my lord. I have even had my wounds treated by a maester of the Citadel. I believe the Captain would be somewhat dismayed should I expire.’

Anaeryn chuckled.

‘I suspect he would be a little put out by your death.’ He agreed before sobering. ‘Why have the Ironborn rebelled against the Iron Throne?’

‘The Iron Throne?’ Lord Harlaw repeated slowly, gratefully accepting the goblet of wine Anaeryn handed him. ‘No. The Ironborn could not care less for the chair you greenlanders choose to abase yourselves before.’

‘And yet for the last decade you have bent the knee.’ Anaeryn commented.

‘Not through choice.’ Came the reply. ‘The desire to return to the Old Ways burns in the blood of every Ironborn child. We are a race of reavers and the iron price is all we know.’

‘Then your race will die.’ Anaeryn replied calmly, certainly. ‘The Seven Kingdoms stand united and have built a world in which pirates have no place. The dragon kings subjugated your islands and your people centuries ago, and every time you have risen against the yoke you have been cast back down in a sea of blood.’

Lord Harlaw tilted his head in mute acknowledgement before he lifted a brow.

‘And your fat King Robert?’ He asked. ‘Where are his dragons? Where are his ships? His armies?’

‘You are old enough to have met his fleet off Fair Isle nine years ago.’ Anaeryn replied. ‘To have seen the _Fury _tear the _Golden Storm _in twain.’

‘I was not there that day.’ Lord Harlaw admitted. ‘And there shall not be another. Lord Redwyne’s fleet lies at the bottom of the sea and the Royal Fleet…’ he paused and took a sip of wine, ‘will have been burned to ashes on the beaches of Dragonstone before it ever takes to sea. Even now your _Fury _is like to be naught but a blackened skeleton.’

Anaeryn forced himself to keep his face impassive.

‘You have agents within the fleet?’

Lord Harlaw smiled thinly.

‘I do not, but King Euron has eyes and willing hands everywhere.’

Anaeryn felt a chill run through him at the expression. Victarion had proved sufficiently talkative to explain that Balon Greyjoy had been thrown into the sea beneath Pyke during a storm, and that Euron had returned to take control, crowning himself king.

‘So let us say that the Royal Fleet is no more, that King Robert has failed to miraculously hatch a dragon. Let us say that the Seven Kingdoms have nothing to stand against you.’ _Which we do not_, Anaeryn admitted to himself, despairing. ‘Your fleet, too, lies beneath the waves, or littered along the shores of the Whispering Sound. The Seven Kingdoms without ships are still two thousand leagues of fertile land and a million men with swords. The Iron Islands stripped of their squadrons? I will grant you a few miles of poor pasture and a dozen villages full of widows and call it generous.’He challenged.

‘But the fleet is not dea-’

Anaeryn could have shouted with triumph. Lord Harlaw bit himself off, blinking rapidly. Clearly the milk of the poppy and the rich, heady wine Anaeryn had been pressing upon him were proving difficult to resist.

‘No?’ Anaeryn asked, almost playful now that he had gained the opening he had desired, ‘so where has Euron taken it?’

‘Perhaps I misspoke.’ Lord Harlaw replied, fumbling now as he tried to stand. ‘The Iron Fleet was burned three nights ago, as you saw with your own eyes.’

‘Please sit, my lord.’ Anaeryn replied, refilling the man’s goblet. ‘We have much still to discuss.’ He paused and stared down at the dark surface of his own, still full, cup. ‘I will be open with you. I know that Lord Euron…’ he continued, deliberately ignoring the Crow’s Eye’s royal title, ‘lives on. The Lord Captain, who lies chained in a cell far beneath us, was kind enough to inform me of the fact. Whilst I have little doubt that the Iron Fleet itself sailed to destruction with its master, I have even less that your ruler has retained some ships to chase his own purpose.’

Lord Harlaw shifted uncomfortably, glaring mistrustfully at his goblet.

‘I know nothing of what you speak.’

‘A pity.’ Anaeryn commented. ‘A pity that you sit here before me, a prisoner, rather than astride the deck of a longship, sailing with your king. Were you not trusted?’

Lord Harlaw remained silent.

‘What about the kingsmoot? Did you give your support to Euron?’

Anaeryn knew that there must have been a meeting to elect the ruler of the Iron Islands, and he would have been surprised if a man who was known to be the most like a greenlander of all the Ironborn lords had thrown himself behind a man for whom all aspects of greenlander culture were repellent.

Lord Harlaw could not hold his tongue.

‘I did not.’ He admitted. ‘I gave my vote to the Lady Asha.’

‘And did the Lady Asha desire a return to the old ways?’

When Lord Harlaw hesitated, Anaeryn knew he had the man.

‘She did not.’ He acknowledged, taking a gulp of wine as if to signify his surrender. ‘I opposed King Euron’s plans to return to the Old Ways, just as I argued against his brother’s nine years ago.’

‘So not every member of your people wants a life of pillage.’ Anaeryn commented, calling him on his hypocrisy.

‘Perhaps we did not when we did not think it possible, Lord Dayne.’ Lord Harlaw replied, the fire returning to his eyes. ‘But King Euron has harnessed sorceries not witnessed since the days of the Grey King. In a few short turns he has destroyed all possible resistance to our command of the seas.’

Anaeryn could not disagree.

-

‘Why did Victarion attack Oldtown?’

The others looked confused, but Anaeryn raised a curious eyebrow at Loras.

‘I mean,’ Mace Tyrell’s son flashed him a smile before continuing, ‘Oldtown is the richest target in Westeros. Perhaps only Casterly Rock would be as great a prize. What could Euron be doing that is worth more to him than this city?’

A thoughtful silence fell. Anaeryn was amused to note the expression on Ser Garth’s face, which made him look as though nothing in the world was more important to him in that moment than solving the problem set before him.

‘Mayhaps it is indeed Casterly Rock the Crow’s Eye has set his eye upon?’ Loras suggested eventually.

‘Perhaps.’ Anaeryn agreed, considering the notion. ‘But whatever sorceries he has at his command, such a fortress must remain nigh on impenetrable. He cannot have the forces to commit to a lengthy siege.’

Lord Leyton remained abed atop his tower. He had watched his city burn from the windows of his bedchamber, and had retreated beneath his coverlet in a fit of despair. When Anaeryn had made the journey up to visit him his eyes had been empty and he had remained unresponsive as his heir spoke. As such, Anaeryn led this council of war and Ser Garth, Ser Tarrant and Ser Moryn, the last of whom looked none too happy, sat obediently at his table.

‘The Crow’s Eye could be weak of heart. His courage might have failed him and made him send his brother to lead the attack he was too feeble to command.’

Anaeryn spent less time weighing Ser Garth’s suggestion than Loras’. He was certain of little, but Euron Greyjoy’s stomach for a fight was something he would not dare to question.

‘It is possible.’ He allowed eventually, knowing that keeping Ser Garth on his side was one of the most significant buttresses to his control of the city.

-

‘Ser Tarrant, Ser Joe, would you spare me a moment?’

The men in question sank back into their seats as the remainder of the assembly departed the chamber, Ser Moryn glancing back suspiciously as he left.

‘My lord?’ Ser Joe prompted politely as Ser Tarrant sat in silence and Anaeryn contemplated his decision.

‘I will be holding a public audience.’ He announced.

Ser Joe’s face was, as ever, impassive. Ser Tarrant blinked rapidly with surprise.

‘A formal public audience, my lord?’ He questioned, seeking confirmation.

Anaeryn inclined his head.

‘Just so. It will, of course, be absent of some of the usual trappings; it would not do for the common folk to see us in a celebratory mood so soon after such losses.’

‘Of course not, my lord, but surely it is Lord Leyton’s prerogative to—’

‘It is Lord Leyton’s prerogative to hold public audiences in his own city.’ Anaeryn agreed calmly, cutting Ser Tarrant off. ‘And should he decide to descend from his bedchamber and listen to the grievances of his people, then I will, of course, step aside and allow him to counsel them. In his absence, however, I feel it my duty to do what little I can to reassure and aid those who have had their lives upended and their families devastated.’

‘Certainly, my lord.’ Ser Tarrant replied, rather stiffly. Anaeryn understood his resistance. It was unusual even for an heir of a great lord to hold a public audience in his stead, for it was at such audiences that a leader became known to his people. If a lord found that another had come to replace him in the minds of those he ruled then he was no ruler.

Even in his own heart Anaeryn did not truly know whether he desired more to offer solace or to be seen doing so. Certainly, the impulse to aid the city and do all that he could for its inhabitants burned deep within his gut, born out of both compassion and the guilt he bore for his involvement. Equally, he was acutely aware that the loyalty of Oldtown would immeasurably strengthen his arm in the war he knew must come. He would not take his seat upon the Iron Throne without a sea of men and an ocean of gold at his back.

‘I will be holding the audience on the day after the morrow, from sunrise until sunset.’ He told them. He knew that here he was being only cynical; there was no way Lord Leyton had had the strength to hold a day-long audience in decades. Anaeryn would sit before the people of Oldtown in the hour of their need, young and benevolent and apparently tireless, as their true master slept in the sky above their heads.

‘I will have only Hightower guardsmen in the chamber.’ He continued. There must be no purple banners or surcoats, no swords and falling stars in evidence. Anaeryn would sit as the heir to Lord Leyton Hightower, as the son of Geraynt Hightower, not as some foreign potentate.

Ser Joe looked ready to object, but a warning glance was enough to make him hold his tongue.

‘Ser Tarrant, I will leave you to make the arrangements for my protection.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ The man replied obediently.

‘You must not let me keep you from your duties.’ Anaeryn continued, dismissing the man. He waited until the oaken chamber doors boomed closed after him before he spoke to Ser Joe.

‘Do not worry, my friend.’ He reassured him, dispensing with the formalities now that he was alone with a man he had known for as long as he had been able to walk. ‘I will have a pair of secretaries to make note of the names of my petitioners,’ he smiled slightly, ‘and to hold me to my promises. One, of course, will be Lenyl, but the other you may choose.’

‘But in such a guise they may not wear armour, my lord.’ Ser Joe protested. ‘Or even a sword.’

‘No,’ Anaeryn acknowledged, smiling again, ‘and they must also look as though they know which end of a quill is which. I also, however, need someone to interview and select my petitioners.’

‘And you require me to undertake that task, my lord?’ Ser Joe asked, comprehension dawning as he realised he would be able to select those he deemed the least likely to pose a threat.

‘If you have no more pressing duties on the morrow.’

-

‘Good evening, my lord.’ Eleyne Sand purred.

Anaeryn showed his teeth back at her, debating whether it was a stroke of luck or misfortune that it should be her guarding the door to the cells. Certainly, she would report his visit back to Ser Joe unless he specifically ordered her not to, which would be suspicious in itself.

‘Good evening, Eleyne, might I borrow your keys?’ He asked, keeping his tone light.

‘Of course, my lord.’ She agreed immediately, a smile curving her well-formed lips. ‘Will you be needing me for protection?’

Anaeryn wondered idly who would protect him from her.

‘I think, unfortunately, that Ser Gerold will suffice for tonight.’ He replied, nodding his head towards his ever-surly friend.

‘But you haven’t been… guarded… by the both of us before, my lord.’ She replied, drawing out the word. Her eyes were bright and mischievous in the half light. ‘You know not what security you might feel in our protective embrace.’

Anaeryn flushed slightly at her implication, even as he decided that if ever a woman was to manage to lure him to her bed, Eleyne Sand would likely be she.

‘Perhaps such dreams are best left to the imagination,’ he replied, smiling, ‘lest the actuality overcome a mere mortal.’

She returned his expression and inclined her head, but not could quite conceal her disappointment. She handed him the heavy bunch of keys, informing him that the cell numbers were scratched onto the loop of each.

‘I will leave you to your business then, my lord.’ She slipped gracefully back into the small guardroom, where Anaeryn could hear the sound of dice rattling. Lord Leyton had not seemed pleased when Anaeryn had reported the fact that he had had his chief gaoler arrested, but unless his adopted grandfather directly ordered the man’s release then Anaeryn was disinclined to let him free.

‘Just the two of us tonight, then?’ Gerold asked sardonically as they made their way down the corridor.

Anaeryn chuckled. He knew that he and Aurane were the only ones who ever got to see the playful side of Gerold, when his customary sneer softened just a little.

‘It would seem so. If you find yourself unsatisfied in my company, however, I’m sure Eleyne would be happy to keep you safe tonight.’

‘It’s you she wants.’ Gerold commented as they arrived outside the cell door, moving his torch so that Anaeryn could work through the bunch of keys. ‘Although she is tempting.’

‘She is.’ Anaeryn agreed as he reached the correct key and turned it in the well-oiled lock.

The cell had been dark before Gerold brandished his torch in the space, for the sun had set long hours before. The prisoner was not asleep, however. Victarion Greyjoy sat on his thin cot, one arm slightly lifted from his lap where the chain that bound him to the back wall pulled at it. He barely stirred as they entered.

‘I must beg your pardon for interrupting your rest.’ Anaeryn began clumsily, startled at not having had to rouse the man.

Greyjoy looked up at him slowly.

‘What need do I have for rest? Either I rot here or die out there.’ He jerked his head slightly in the direction of the door. ‘Have you decided, my lord?’ He asked, finally showing some sign of animation as he sneered over the title and eyed Anaeryn as though he did not think him worthy of it.

‘The decision is not mine to make.’ Anaeryn told him, although he knew that no one would raise a hand to stop him should he order the man’s execution. ‘You lie beneath Lord Hightower’s keep, and it is from him that you must beg mercy.’

‘I will beg for mercy from no man. I have lost my fleet, my ship, my freedom. I have lived and I will die Ironborn.’

Anaeryn inclined his head, accepting the man’s decision.

‘Before you die, I desire to know of your sorcery.’ This was what he had returned in the dead of night for.

‘Sorcery.’ Victarion spat the word. ‘They promised they would overwhelm the city, leave it shattered and ripe for the plunder.’

‘They?’ Anaeryn prompted, noting that Victarion had not even attempted a denial.

‘Euron’s pets. I stole them from him the night the Iron Fleet left harbour. I should have left them to kneel at the feet of their master.’

‘You stole them.’ Anaeryn repeated, turning the information over in his head.

‘Thought they might help. Bet it pissed Euron off.’ Victarion seemed to take a small amount of pleasure from the idea.

‘The wave was their doing?’

‘Lot of good it did. Fucking Harlaw and those white-faced cunts both promised they could clear the harbour walls, but they were still throwing fucking boulders at us as we came in.’

Anaeryn had known that Ser Joe and Ser Garth had managed to bring the trebuchets to bear, but to be told of their success by a man who had been on the receiving end of their fire was gratifying.

‘And then they burned my shitting ships!’ Victarion roared out, punching one hand into the other.

Anaeryn, who had been thinking, stepped back instinctively, hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. Gerold, who was fully armoured, drew a long dagger and pointed it threateningly at the Lord Captain. Anaeryn stared at the man as the words sank in.

‘Your sorcerers burned the fleet?’ He asked, hardly daring to believe his luck.

‘To ash.’

There was no question of allowing Victarion his execution now, or at least not for the time being. If the commander of the enemy fleet actually believed that it was his own sorceries that had destroyed his ships then he should be allowed to shout his fury to the heavens, or at least to the people of Oldtown.

‘Tell me about these traitorous sorcerers.’ Anaeryn prompted.

Victarion spat again, and his bile gleamed on the floor by Anaeryn’s feet.

‘Cunts from Asshai, or that’s what Euron claimed. A sorcerer is a sorcerer to me, until he stabs me in the back.’ The Lord Captain growled.

Anaeryn remembered Marwyn’s warning about magic being a sword without a hilt, and mused that Victarion’s involvement with sorcery had come back to cut the Lord Captain in the strangest of ways.

‘Did you steal all of Euron’s sorcerers?’ Anaeryn asked, holding his breath.

‘Aye. Aside from my cursed brother himself.’

‘Euron himself?’ Anaeryn asked, feeling a strange dread settle in.

Victarion merely stared at him mulishly and would say no more.

-

‘Can you tell me where he is, what his intentions are?’

The Mad Maid blinked slowly. Anaeryn had had himself hoisted up the tower to the small set of chambers adjoining Lord Leyton’s rooms that Malora occupied. He had found her dressed, as ever, in a shapeless robe as she sat next to a narrow window and stared into the distance. She had barely stirred after she had bid him enter.

He stood before her, his impatience growing. She spoke just as he was about to break his own silence to prompt her.

‘Who do you speak of, my lord?’

‘Euron Greyjoy.’ He bit out, barely holding back the _of course_.

‘I know not what he does.’ She replied, her gaze not straying from the sky beyond her window.

‘You spoke of him on the night of the attack.’ Anaeryn told her. His memory had been prompted in his meeting with Lord Harlaw. ‘You spoke of the Great Kraken sailing on a sea of blood, and told me that the water was clear. Although you did not choose to speak plainly, you knew that the Crow’s Eye was not there that night.’

‘I did, my lord?’ She asked, turning to him at last. Her expression was blank.

‘You did.’ Anaeryn repeated firmly. ‘Can you tell me where he is now?’ His eyes drifted to the glass candle he could see sitting silently on the far side of the room.

‘I cannot help you, my lord.’

‘You have seen nothing?’ Anaeryn pressed her.

‘I can only see what the gods see fit to reveal to me.’

She remained silent after that, and Anaeryn left her.

-

A hundred voices rose in delicate step together, before falling like a sigh into a silence so deep that it seemed as much a presence as the notes it left behind. Anaeryn could feel a slight warmth at the back of his neck from the narrow slit of sunlight falling on him from high above, or perhaps it was merely the pressure of the thousand pairs of eyes he imagined to be fixed upon him.

The Archsepton of Oldtown processed past, his staff of office clicking against the gleaming granite of the floor, trailed by fifty of the Most Devout in bejewelled vestments swinging censers and bearing gilded books and huge crystals on cushions. The music lifted again as the servants of the gods surrounded the high altar and lay down their burdens, prostrating themselves and retreating backwards with practised steps.

‘Be welcome!’

Anaeryn thought that the archsepton must be approaching his eightieth year, stooped and saintly in his gleaming white robe, but his voice filled the the vast dark vaults of the Starry Sept.

‘We gather here today beneath the gaze of the gods, before the One who is Seven and the Seven who are One, to offer thanks and seek solace. We stand together, a community bound by faith to our maker, united in sorrow. We weep for those who have left us in this mortal world, but cry out with joy at their salvation, bound by the promise of freedom in the life hereafter.’

The archsepton’s speech was slow and melodic, ringing bright with conviction. Anaeryn could feel the masses behind him leaning in to the comfort of the man’s words. Ser Garth, standing at his shoulder, was rapt. A slow tear ran down his uncle’s cheek as the gods’ anointed led the congregation in prayer and bid them kneel to receive the blessing.

Anaeryn’s knees sank into the pillow in front of him, and his mind drifted from the solemn words to the thought of the thousands of smallfolk in the sept resting instead upon cold stone. He rose smoothly with bowed head as the archsepton finished the benediction and the choir’s voices swelled once more. The archsepton and his underlings had been working tirelessly in the city since the night of the attack, holding funeral services and offering comfort to the grieving. Anaeryn could not consider himself a religious man, but the sight of hundreds of septons in the streets, catering to their people, had touched him deeply.

It had been almost a week since the night of the attack, and this was the first full service that the Starry Sept had held since then, so dedicated to his pastoral duties was its priest. Anaeryn knew that many in the city had pressed for a service of thanks to be held the day after the Ironborn had made their way into the Sound, with the fires still burning up large swathes of the city. Fortunately, the archsepton had resisted, and was even reported to have been seen pulling pails of water from the canals in the poorer northern parts of the city to fight the flames.

The area around the Starry Sept, filled with the substantial houses of knights and merchants, had been gutted. Many of their fine stone walls still stood, but were cracked from heat and blackened by soot, what remained of their roof timbers jutting upwards, blackened and broken. The Starry Sept itself stood unblemished in the centre of the devastation. The smallfolk were calling it a miracle, saying that the gods themselves had shielded their house from the magical flames. Anaeryn thought that the fact that the walls of the sept were more than teen feet thick at the base, and that its gleaming black marble casing was adept at concealing soot stains, likely had far more to do with its remarkable survival.

-

‘House Drumm. House Goodbrother. House Blacktyde. House Botley.’ Anaeryn paused. ‘House Harlaw. Their longships destroyed, their warriors slaughtered, their lords dead. All save for you.’

Rodrik Harlaw stared back at him steadily. He occupied the same chair he had taken during their interview several days before, but this time his eyes were clear of the poppy cloud and Anaeryn had not offered him wine.

‘So it would seem.’ He replied politely, although his expression tightened. Anaeryn knew that the man had lost at least one son, perhaps more, in the attack. He had also been parted from his _Sea Song_, and Anaeryn knew that an Ironborn captain’s ship was likely closer to his heart than his family.

‘Tell me,’ Anaeryn continued, ‘why did you lead an attack on the harbour walls from inside the city?’

Lord Harlaw looked at him askance.

‘So that we could stop your catapults being used on our vessels, and instead turn them against your ships. Surely our intent was clear to you?’

‘It was.’ Anaeryn acknowledged. ‘I meant to ask, rather, why you deemed such an assault, with all of its risks, necessary when Victarion’s stolen sorcerers claimed that they could clear the harbour defences with no risk of casualties.’

‘I would sooner trust a greenlander than a sorcerer.’ Harlaw declared.

‘And yet it is their power that destroyed the Redwyne fleet, indeed, it is their power that destroyed Lord Hightower’s dromonds, a significant number of my sword ships, and more than two hundred merchant vessels. Your own attack failed.’

‘Nor did it burn the Iron Fleet.’ The man bit out. Anaeryn barely repressed his smile that this man, too, was blaming Euron’s captured spellcasters for the tragedy.

‘Why are you not with the Crow’s Eye?’

Lord Harlaw blinked at the sudden change of direction.

‘I do not understand the question.’

‘Why did you sail with the Lord Captain, rather than your king, on whatever business he is about?’

‘King Euron named me the Lord Captain’s second in command. What I have done to merit such an honour I do not know.’

‘You miss my meaning. You remember the lords I named earlier?’

‘Drumm, Blacktyde, Botley, and so on?’

‘Yes, the dead ones. Did they support Euron at the kingsmoot?’ Anaeryn asked casually.

Harlaw frowned.

‘If I recall correctly, they stood with the Lord Captain.’

Anaeryn allowed himself a small smile.

‘And you aligned with the Lady Asha.’ Anaeryn noted. ‘Did you expect your attack on this city to succeed?’

He was examining Lord Harlaw’s expression intently, and was gratified to see a slight flicker of unease cross the older man’s face.

‘The city was nearly taken.’

‘The city was not nearly taken.’ Anaeryn disagreed calmly. ‘Your own attack on the walls failed. Had your pet sorcerers not decided to immolate your fleet, your men would have pillaged the city for a few hours in the chaos of the night and then been hunted down like dogs when the dawn broke. Your ships would have been trapped between Battle Isle and the harbour walls, at the mercy of the catapults you did not have control of.’

‘The city was ours for the taking!’ Harlaw exclaimed, slapping one hand on the arm of his chair.

‘Is that what Euron told you?’ Anaeryn asked with a mocking expression. ‘He did not give you his sorcerers voluntarily. The Lord Captain took them like a thief in the night. Euron intended you to arrive with only longships and steel. Without the wave that shattered our defences on the water, what did you have? A cowardly attack with a few hundred men in the middle of the night that ended almost as soon as it began?’ He did not let the man respond. ‘How many swords did your fleet carry? Five thousand? Ten at the most. There are more than half a million souls in this city, and more men to defend the walls than your entire people can float. You failed even with sorcery, without it, what chance did you have?’

‘I fail to see your meaning.’ Harlaw said, eyes narrowing.

‘Allow me to speak plainly, then. Your king ordered you to attack a city whose defenders considerably outnumbered your own force—_not quite true, but he does not need to know that_—a well prepared city with thick walls. An attack was doomed to failure. Euron wanted you dead.’

It was the only conclusion that made sense to Anaeryn, the only explanation that knitted together the information he had without a gaping hole somewhere. If Euron had thought Oldtown a fruit he could pick, then he would have been with the fleet, ready to gorge himself on gold and destruction. He would not have given such a choice command to men who did not freely support his crown unless he thought it a way of freeing himself of them. It worried Anaeryn that the man was apparently willing to throw away hundreds of ships and thousands of men to free himself of possible traitors. Clearly, he thought whatever strength he had remaining sufficient to his purposes. The only good had been the death of his sorcerers.


End file.
